by A J Dalton
Jillan stepped out of the inn with a sigh of relief. The air cooled his hot cheeks and helped him get his nerves under control. The Saint was closer now than ever. The holy one always knew! Heroes could be heading for the inn even now.
He looked up and down the street, but all seemed quiet. He headed back the way they’d originally come and joined the press of people and wagons on the main thoroughfare. Movement was slow but at least no one would find him too easily in all this.
After a good while edging forward, Jillan found that the street he was on opened out as it met other thoroughfares, and then suddenly he was into the ordered mayhem of the market proper. Most of the wagons and stalls were set around the edges of the town’s vast Gathering Place – Godsend’s own centre would have fitted four or five times over in this place – but several dozen had prime position in the middle, with what looked like permanent display tables.
It seemed that everyone in Saviours’ Paradise had turned out for the market, for he couldn’t move more than a few paces without colliding with another body. Most wore the sort of finery that was only ever seen on temple days in Godsend. Those not rich enough to possess any sort of finery found a place from which they could ogle others, begged for coins or picked pockets.
The swell carried Jillan into the middle and he found himself standing before the stall of a giant man who could only be a blacksmith. Displayed on his table were gleaming knives, swords and axes of all shapes and size. These were far from being tools for mere farmers.
There was something hypnotic about the weapons and their shining surfaces. Jillan wanted to pick one up, heft it in his hand and feel its balance, but at the same time he feared the potential of the sharp, hungry edges. He needed a real blade with which to defend himself, he knew: the confrontation with Valor had proved that.
‘You won’t find better,’ the giant announced in a voice so deep that it was felt as much as it was heard.
Jillan blinked slowly and nodded.
‘Expensive, of course. I’d need to see gold, even for one of the smaller blades … or something valuable you might have in exchange.’
Jillan stared at his reflection in a long two-edged knife. The eyes that looked back at him saw right into his heart and held him in place.
‘Learned my craft in the east,’ the giant rumbled softly, ‘where they temper and cool their blades in the blood of their enemies. They say such blades give the owner the strength, knowledge and skill of any whose life and blood were lost so that the blade could be forged.’
Jillan had one item in his pack that the blacksmith might accept in exchange. Give him Samnir’s blade, whispered the taint. It’s a dull and clumsy ceremonial thing, no use in a fight. Coming from the Great Temple, though, it’s probably valuable. The blacksmith could melt it down for something else. He began to fumble for the chunky blade, which of course had inconveniently found its way to the bottom of his pack. He found an edge and traced along it to find the hilt. His hand brushed against several of the stones from his collection, which he’d forgotten about till now. Gripping the so-called weapon, he tugged on it, but it was caught on something and refused to come free.
‘Stupid—’
‘You, boy!’ called a familiar voice. ‘Over here!’
‘What have you got there?’ asked the blacksmith curiously as he glimpsed burnished metal. He loomed closer.
Jillan looked round. His annoyance was replaced by shock as he saw Jacob the trader waving at him from a stall along the side of the Gathering Place. Should he run? No, he’d only attract attention and the blacksmith was already bearing down on him.
He turned back and met the giant’s eye. ‘I’ll be back in a minute. Save the long knife for me, will you?’
The blacksmith looked from Jillan to Jacob and back again. ‘Very well,’ he said gruffly and retreated. ‘Don’t be long, though. I’m not about to deny another willing customer when I’ve seen no down payment from you.’
Jillan nodded and trotted over to Jacob’s stall. He kept a few paces back, however, in case the trader intended to grab him.
‘I’m glad to see you. Are you well?’ Jacob said with a broken smile. Then he added more quietly, ‘I did not shout out your name, did I?’
‘I am well, sir, thank you.’ Jillan smiled, happier to see the trader’s familiar careworn face than he would ever have expected. ‘Hella isn’t … here with you, is she?’
‘I’m sorry, no. Yet she is well, particularly now the Minister has been banished. Come, pretend to examine my paltry wares and we will be less conspicuous.’
Judging it safe, Jillan stood closer. ‘What of my parents? Have they travelled with you?’
Jacob’s face fell. He looked around briefly, to be sure they were not overheard. ‘The Saint took them away in chains. It may be for the best, though, for there is plague in Godsend.’
‘What?’ Jillan’s mind reeled. ‘If the Saint is here, then so are my parents. I must find them.’
‘Wait!’ Jacob said, pulling him back. ‘There is something else you should know. Samnir … Samnir was cruelly punished by the holy one. He lives still, but his mind is gone and he sits all day in his own filth in the Gathering Place of Godsend. I know the two of you were close. I will do my best to look after him when I return, but I don’t know how much I can really do for him.’ He paused. ‘Jillan … Jillan, have you thought of handing yourself in? It might be for the best.’
Jillan began to back away. Jacob followed him solicitously.
‘Stay back!’
Several people glanced towards them curiously.
We could kill all of them. These people only want to betray, use or sell you.
‘Jillan, I only …’
‘Stay back! That’s not my name! I’m Irkarl! I’m Owain!’
‘Here, what’s going on?’ the blacksmith called. ‘The boy’s got something I want to see.’
Jillan moved away more quickly, his cloak flapping open.
‘What’s that you’ve got on underneath, boy? Hey, I think it’s him! The one they’re looking for! Stop him, someone!’
Jillan ran for all he was worth.
CHAPTER 7:
Or what we once were
‘Stupid mule! May the Saviours curse your stubborn hide. Chaos beast! Must I perform an exorcism on you before you will take another step? Are you some devil transformed into animal shape? Must I bear the burden of our journey myself? Would you have me carry you upon my back before we may proceed? Do you not know I am on a holy mission?’
Minister Praxis yanked and hauled on the mule’s reins, but it would not take a single step further across the snow-covered slope. It brayed at the Minister.
‘You laugh at me, do you? Then truly you are bewitched or possessed by dark forces seeking to subvert the will of the blessed Saviours. I am soon to be Saint Praxis of the Mountains. How dare you heap such indignity upon me, you hirsute heathen!’
The Minister dropped the reins and went round behind the mule. He slapped its rump and it flicked its tail in annoyance. Then the Minister bent his knees, put his shoulder to it and heaved. A hoof kicked out and caught him painfully on the shin.
The Minister shrieked and collapsed to the ground clutching his leg.
‘How dare you attack a holy servant of the blessed Saviours, you pestilential and maniacal miscreant! To think I feed you, you miserable ingrate, when I would surely do myself a kindness were I to carve you up for my cook pot. Yet even boiled your flesh would no doubt be as tough and intolerable as you are alive. Nay, it would poison me! Do your evil designs and conspiracies against me know no bounds?’
The mule began to urinate, the steaming yellow torrent not quite managing to splash the prone Minister.
‘You foul creature!’ the Minister howled. ‘Must you corrupt the earth with your filth also? Truly, you are a pagan suited to these parts. Those that dwell in these mountains will no doubt welcome you then, perhaps setting you as a king or god over them. They will seek to emulate y
ou and befoul themselves, their beds and their own salvation. So it is that the Chaos and its pagan horde ultimately undoes itself and proves the righteousness and sanctity of the blessed Saviours. I will not tolerate your blasphemy against my cause, presence and person a moment longer. You will desist, you hear, you misbegotten and malevolent malacant!’
The mule now lifted its tail and began to defecate. The Minister’s sobs and outrage echoed across the peaks.
‘There, there,’ a voice breezed down from the top of a cottage-sized boulder not much further up the slope. ‘You’re probably just a bit light-headed because the air up here is thinner. Some have visions because of it when they go very high up. They think that Wayfar speaks to them at such times, and that’s why the youth do it, you see.’
The Minister’s head jerked up. ‘What new devil is this come to taunt me in my distress?’
Torpeth put his head on his side as he considered the Minister. ‘Or perhaps you haven’t been eating enough. You’re very thin, and those small bags atop Dobbin do not look as if they carry too much.’
‘Devilish inquisitor, begone! I will tell you nothing, lest you twist it and seek to lure me to my doom. Begone, terrible trickster! Begone, I say!’
‘Hmm. It’s neither visions nor light-headedness then. You are feebleminded, are you not?’
‘I will not be led astray by you. I will not be diverted from my path or holy mission.’
‘Listen.’ Torpeth frowned. ‘If you do not step off your path, you will tumble into that chasm concealed by the snow directly before you. Your neck will be properly broken, spindly as it is. Why do you think Dobbin has remained unmoving? Dumb Dobbin has more sense than you yourself do, lowlander. Is that why you trespass here? Have your own people realised you are so weak-minded and dangerous that they have thrown you out?’
‘You are a creature of forbidden and corrupting magicks to know such things!’ the Minister gurgled. ‘Yet whatever spells and illusions you seek to cast over my eyes and mind, my faith allows me to see you for what you truly are – a small and hairy homunculus sat unnaturally naked and uncaring of the cold.’
Torpeth scratched his behind and shrugged. ‘You get used to the cold after a few years, especially once your hair starts to grow thicker. I’d advise you to grow a beard, lowlander, lest you be mistaken for a woman – albeit an ugly one – by one of the rougher warriors hereabouts. Otherwise, they might not allow you out of the darkness of their homes until you have borne them a child.’
‘What is it you say, consort of the Chaos? You speak of unnatural things. Do you think to tempt me like this? My faith is too strong. I will not be suborned.’
Torpeth sighed and shook his head. ‘Truly, you are crazier than me, lowlander, and I am so crazy that my people call me holy. Yet I do not mix nature, chaos and order as you do. Perhaps then you are holier still. I have half a mind not to turn you away, although I turned away all those who came before you. I have half a mind not to bring down the mist to disorientate you or send you back to the lowlands. I cannot protect my people forever, can I, not when the gods are long since broken, payment is due and the balance is ended? The others cannot be turned away forever. Indeed, perhaps they should not be. Perhaps it is best if you come to my dwelling place tonight and I take you to the chief’s village in the morning.’ Torpeth brightened. ‘Do you like pine nuts?’
‘And so the unholy creature must capitulate before my faith and the righteous will of the Saviours.’ The Minister nodded.
Torpeth rolled his eyes and looked to the gathering sky. ‘Utterly crazy. I would get more sense from Dobbin there.’
‘The mule is your familiar then, man-witch!’
Torpeth poked his tongue out at the Minister. ‘The only one who’s been speaking to poor Dobbin there is you, lowlander. I heard you rail at him as if expecting him to answer. But who am I to judge, eh? Perhaps you hear him answer. Do you hear his voice in your head? They say magic-users in the past used to be able to commune with animals. Do you hear other voices too? There was a time when I thought I heard the voices of the old gods, but that was long ago now. They have either fallen silent or I am not as crazy as I once was. Or they have just decided to talk to someone else instead. They’re somewhat fickle and easily bored, you know. It wouldn’t be so surprising if they had started talking to others, for these days I’m mostly occupied with harassing goats, haranguing youth, gathering pine nuts and examining the colour of my bodily expulsions. You wouldn’t want to watch and discuss such things for long, would you?’
‘Absolutely not, lurid devil!’
Torpeth looked disappointed. ‘In which case, we’ll spend just the one night in each other’s captivating company, eh? Besides, I suspect Dobbin wants to see you delivered to your destination as soon as possible.’
‘Impudent imp!’
‘Keep this up, lowlander, and I won’t even let you have any pine nuts.’
‘The Saviours will provide, prating pagan!’
Saint Azual waited in the darkness of the imposing edifice that was the temple of Saviours’ Paradise. This place was no less draughty, damp or uncomfortable than the temples of his other communities, but there was a sense of escape and quiet reverence here – set back from the hubbub of the marketplace as the temple was – where there was only silence and emptiness in the other places of worship. Here, when he meditated, he fancied he could sense the vast and overshadowing intellects of the Saviours. Here he was close to communing with them, close to becoming one with them. How fitting then that his pursuit of the boy would end here and he, Azual, would finally have the power he needed to ascend.
His eye flared open and lit up the dark. They had him! The Saint leapt to his feet, all dynamic action and force now. Now was the moment of his will.
He quickly left the temple and brushed his guards aside as his intent carved a path through the town. The People scattered as he rushed on, his thoughts compelling them to throw themselves aside. A young child was suddenly directly in front of him. It was too young to have been Drawn, so was unconnected and unaware of its ruler’s silent command to the People. It sat with small arms raised, bawling for its mother. Azual paid the filthy urchin little mind – he was certainly not about to deviate from his course because of it. He dashed past, his heel clipping its temple and knocking it on its back. It screamed as he left it in his wake.
My touch has blessed it! his mind told the People in the vicinity.
‘Thank you, holy one!’ a woman cried out.
Azual stormed across the town. A disorientated drunk could not get out of the way in time and was thrown to the floor by other people scrambling to move. ‘Forgive me!’ the old sot blubbed from where he lay. Azual’s foot came down on the man’s throat and crushed his windpipe. The Saint passed on. People standing nearby nodded and gave thanks for the object lesson provided by the holy one.
He overturned a wagon in his way, ignoring the terrified screams of the horse toppled and trapped in its traces. He crashed through a potter’s stall and entered the street that led to the punishment chambers next to the barracks of the town’s Heroes. Within a hand of seconds he was through the small stone square where the town pillory and gibbet were set up and was descending the stairs into the rock beneath Saviours’ Paradise. Captain Skathis was waiting for him. The officer signalled to a guard to unlock a cell and then bowed as the Saint passed by without a word.
Azual bent his head and stepped into the small bare cell. Manacled to the wall and hanging by his arms was the fair-haired boy who’d led them such a dance. The light wasn’t good, for there was only a smoking torch on the wall outside the cell by which to see.
‘Remove his gag.’
Captain Skathis hurried to obey. The boy coughed, gasped and then vomited down his front and onto the holy one’s feet.
The Saint slowly turned a baleful eye on the Captain. ‘This is not him,’ he seethed.
The Captain knew better than to attempt excuses. He lowered his head and eyes, rea
dy to accept the death-blow his incompetence deserved. The silence stretched.
‘This is not the face his parents see in their minds. This one is older than the one we want, the one called Jillan, or Irkarl as he calls himself. Yet there is something strange here. This one has not been Drawn. How is that possible in one his age? Who are you?’
The Saint grabbed the boy’s chin. ‘Answer me!’
The boy coughed, saliva stringing from his mouth. ‘A-aspin Longstep from Heroes’ Brook … h-holy one?’
The Saint’s eye became unfocused for a second or two. ‘There are none that think that name in Heroes’ Brook. Why have you not been Drawn?’
‘I-I do not know, holy one.’ A hesitation. ‘Minister Staxis keeps saying I’m not ready.’
‘How has this happened?’ Azual asked tightly, turning on his Captain again. ‘I can see this Jillan entering the town!’ An image of a line of people waiting for the guards to question everyone. The one called Jillan in a cloak, standing with a woodsman.
‘Once we took this one and brought him here—’ the Captain began.
‘Silence, you oaf!’ More images floated past his mind’s eye as he sorted through the jumble of thoughts and memories of the People. Jillan in the marketplace, pursued by several stallholders. Jillan at an inn near the town’s main gates. ‘Send men to all the inns near the main gates. There’s a woodsman called Ash and a bladesman called Spiro in one. They know the boy. And I want regular patrols through the marketplace. Move, Captain, for if I do not have him this very day, I promise you that the next sunrise will be your last.’
‘At once, holy one.’ The Captain bowed. ‘Holy one, should we now release this one here?’
The Saint considered Aspin for a moment. ‘No, there is something strange here that I will return to later. I suspect that it is no coincidence this one is here to distract us. There are all the signs that the Chaos is seeking to exert its influence and keep the boy from me. I must have him, Captain! The enemies of the People must be hunted down and exterminated. No more delay.’
