by A J Dalton
‘There is? Where?’ Torpeth asked, looking all around, inside men’s tunics, under women’s long dresses and into children’s hats, scaring most of the villagers away.
‘Come here and listen. If this headwoman has captured the heart of such a fine man as yourself, then surely she must be a wondrous beauty.’
‘Oh aye, she is.’
‘Well, then, it will surely be hard to keep my wits about me to resist her charms, no? I suspect you are asking a very great deal of me.’
‘Ah, I see. Yes, perhaps I am. Would it be easier for you if I removed your head? Or blindfolded you? Or both?’
‘It would be a shame to kill me when you are still desirous of my magicks, would it not? And surely a blindfold would not work when her voice is no doubt as beautiful as her visage.’
‘Then should I break your ears? A few stabs with a long needle would do it.’ Torpeth nodded. Then dubiously, ‘Or cut out the headwoman’s tongue?’
‘No, that would be messy and unsightly. You do not want to drip blood in the headwoman’s home, do you? No, there is only one way. Listen, my friend. With the proper motivation, I am sure I could find a way to resist her. I will make my determination central to my character and faith. But the motivation must be great indeed and therefore help me with my holy task, a task that defines me. You must agree to share your secrets with me so that I may better fulfil my task.’
Torpeth looked troubled. He jumped from one foot to the other. ‘There is no other way? Either I tell you my secrets or she is lost to me? Ah, the gods are yet cruel! Why must they still test and punish me like this? Am I not already a naked warrior? But my crime was so great there could never be a punishment great enough. At last I understand why the gods brought you here, lowlander. It is to see to my further punishment. And my people continue to suffer for it so that I must witness the ongoing consequences of what I have done. That is why you have come – to create division, visit pain and heap misery on us – is it not? That is your holy task, I now see.’
‘I regret to say it is so, my friend, although it grieves me.’
‘Ah, payment is ever due!’
‘Yes, payment is due.’
‘I knew it!’ Tears left clean tracks down his cheeks, probably the first water they’d seen in a good while. ‘Very well, you will have my secrets, as long as you leave me my love. She is all that is left to me, all that I have … except for my pine nuts, and no one seems to want those anyway. Come then, lowlander.’
They passed over the sill of the headwoman’s large stone dwelling, stepping into a smoky interior. Minister Praxis thought he saw shadowy figures before them, but the smoke shifted and they were gone. He was immediately on guard. If this was a place of unholy spirits and demons, then they would by no means find him easy prey. The headwoman was likely to be a witch. How else would a female have risen to any sort of position of power? Who else would be able to command the naked and noisome pagan at his side? Yes, a place of pestilence and perversion. After all, it was outside the Empire. It was probably the gaping maw of the very Chaos itself.
The Minister licked his dry lips, feeling more than a little trepidation despite the strength of his faith. Sweat trickled from his brow and he tugged at his collar. He was infernally hot one moment and cold to the marrow the next. The laws of nature and order did not operate here. Perhaps the smoke was the breath of the Chaos. It was filling his lungs even now, seeking to take hold.
‘We’ve entered the mouth of a dragon!’ He shuddered.
‘Don’t be daft, lowlander,’ Torpeth coughed. ‘Whoever heard of such a thing? Sal puts herbs on her fire upon occasion to help with her visions and that. It’s probably run away with you is all.’ Then he shouted, ‘Beloved, I’m here!’
‘Who’s that?’ croaked a voice that sounded anything but human. ‘Some old goat who should know better that’s got curious and wandered in from outside?’
Torpeth cackled as if it were the funniest thing he’d ever heard. ‘Beloved, here is a lowlander come to bring us great suffering. Will he be admitted to the higher village?’
‘And why exactly would I permit such a thing, eh?’
Torpeth pulled Minister Praxis towards the sound of the toad somewhere in the rolling smoke. If it was able to speak, the toad had to be a Chaos creature that had swallowed down some unfortunate wanderer. Perhaps he was next! The pagan was leading him towards a hungry, wide-mouthed monster. Once it had devoured him, it would be able to speak in many tongues, in many voices. It was legion! An impossibly long and sticky tongue was about to come snaking out of the gloom, wrap itself around his neck and drag him into its insatiable bottomless maw. He would fall, and fall, and fall, forever! Spinning through the eternal void and emptiness that was the Chaos.
‘Blessed Saviours preserve me!’ he shrieked, staggering as the heathen floor tripped him. He fell to his knees and began a shaky prayer.
‘It is the will of the gods, beloved. Sinisar of the Shining Path lit his way here. Gar of the Still Stone did not trap his feet, Akwar of the Wandering Waters did not block his way with rain and snow, and Wayfar of the Warring Winds did not batter him back with a tempest.’
Torpeth dragged the kneeling Minister into the presence of a wizened old woman whose skin was as lined and dark as an ancient oak. Her eyes, though, were a startling blue, and as clear as any child’s.
‘What’s he doing?’ she creaked. ‘I do not usually ask that visitors pray to me, although I must say it suits him well.’
‘Beloved, there are many strange things about these lowlanders that I do not understand.’
‘But you do understand that they are our enemies, do you not, you muddled old goat? How could you not? You were there when our people lived upon the lower lands. You were there when the others drove them out. Why then do you bring their vassal before me and speak on his behalf?’
‘Beloved, I do not know that the lowlanders are our enemies. The events of the past are continuous with the events of today. The lowlanders that we were are continuous with the lowlanders of today. We are all one with the Geas.’
‘Careful, old goat. It was your thinking in the past that caused so much trouble. Your thinking of today might well keep that trouble continuous. You cannot dispute that the others are our enemies. They seek to make the Geas their own – you know this. They will destroy our way of life. They will destroy all life.’
Torpeth nodded. ‘Who is to say our way of life should continue forever? All life ends, beloved.’
‘To be reborn again! The others would bring an absolute end, however. Who am I to say they should not be permitted to bring that end? Just an old woman who cannot stand the cold any more. Yet it is not for the others to decide they have the right to do so either. The right belongs to the Geas alone, and none other.’
‘P’raps so, p’raps so, beloved. But, as we are, we can do nothing to prevent the others. Something needs to change. This lowlander will change things, I know it. He has a magic of sorts. Who is to say he does not do the work of the Geas, even if it is unwitting on his part?’
The headwoman sighed. ‘And if you are wrong, you condemn us all. Still playing with all our lives then, unrepentant and unlearning Torpeth? Perhaps it is you who still needs to change. It is you who still needs to be punished and sees us punished. Here is my decision then, old goat. I will let you take this one to the higher village, but still I refuse to be yours.’
Torpeth’s face became tragic, his shoulders hung dejectedly, and he looked down as if in shame. His whisper was hoarse. ‘Thank you, beloved, for seeing me again.’
‘Go now, old goat, for there is nothing more for you here. Yet do not tarry in the higher village overlong, for you know well that the warriors near the peak are neither gentle nor as forgiving of you as those of the lower village. There are several who have pledged themselves to Wayfar, and he was ever quick, tempestuous and slow to abate.’
D’Zel, organising intellect of the northern region, had long considered D’S
elle of the western region a fool. As a corollary, the north was run efficiently and had a Saint in Goza who understood the value of things in terms of how they added to both his own and the Empire’s strength, while the west was decadent and had the self-beautifying and profligate Izat as Saint. A flawed Saint was nothing new, of course, as they were of a far lesser race, but a foolhardy Saviour simply could not be tolerated, lest they threaten to bring down the whole. Imagine confronting one as young and inexperienced as D’Shaa like that! Every Saviour in the Great Temple had sensed the echoes of the encounter and effectively witnessed what had gone on. D’Selle simply could not resist gloating over the Saviour of the south, could he, but how much triumph was there in catching out the newest of the organising intellects? More than that, it had been extremely incautious of him to show his hand and let others know where he’d been directing all of his energies.
It was just incredible that D’Selle had managed to survive so long with such clumsy plotting. Fortune favoured the brave, true, but it just as quickly saw to the downfall and demise of the foolish. D’Zel pondered that, wondering if D’Selle might actually be more subtle than he appeared. No, surely not. He could not have foreseen that D’Shaa would have approached Elder Thraal in desperation and secured the release of the Peculiar. As a consequence, however, the imbecile had placed the entire Empire in an unstable and unpredictable position. What had D’Selle been thinking, to attack D’Shaa instead of waiting several more centuries in order to assess fully her style of operation? He should have known better than to attack an unknown quantity.
If D’Zel had been in Elder Thraal’s position, he would have had D’Selle undone immediately for erring so badly. Not only was D’Selle utterly humiliated, but he had also exposed himself badly. Such negligence could not go unpunished. Did the elders expect D’Selle to undo himself because of lost honour or overwhelming shame? Well, they’d be waiting a long time, for he had already shown he was completely without shame or honour.
D’Zel wondered at Elder Thraal’s lack of action in the matter. He also had to wonder at the precipitous decision to unleash the Peculiar. Was the elder’s judgement everything it should be? It was not unknown for the minds of some of the most ancient to become lost on the Great Voyage. Their intellects would become all but entirely detached from reality or too tightly bound up with it. They were no longer able to retain focus and individuality in the waking dream. Everything would lose meaning or everything would take on immediate meaning and overwhelm them. Was there an opportunity here, then, to supplant the elder? Imagine what it would be like to join the vastness of the elders, to see and reach across time and the cosmos. But how did one supplant an elder? What mechanisms could there possibly be to effect it? Hmm. He could seek an audience with Elder Thraal as D’Shaa had done, could he not? The precedent had been set. Yes, it was a beginning, and a beginning was often a means to an end.
In the meantime, the north now demanded his immediate attention. His region had been well in hand – Goza had managed to get off his substantial rear and subdue the rock woman with little trouble. He’d been about to consume her and learn whatever secrets she held concerning the Geas, but then the Peculiar had intervened and taken her beyond his control or influence. Damn that D’Selle – and D’Shaa, come to that. If the rock woman caused trouble elsewhere in the Empire, then he would look negligent in some part himself. He would no longer be able to accuse D’Selle from an unassailable position. D’Selle would be able to share the appearance of negligence around all the organising intellects of the same rank, as if it were a contagion of sorts, and the elders would find it almost impossible to single him out for punishment.
Again, he had to wonder if D’Selle was more cunning than he realised. Could it be that the Saviour of the western region had spies in the north, had learned of the rock woman, understood her likely connection to the Geas and then triggered a series of events that would wrest the rock woman from D’Zel’s clutches? Was it possible, incredible as it might seem? Surely no Saviour had such foresight! Unless they had sources of information and assistance about which D’Zel knew nothing.
Either way, D’Zel now knew he would have to take action against D’Selle himself. His hand was being forced. That made him hesitate. Was there an intellect looking to make him act, hoping to bring him out into the open, where he would inevitably be more vulnerable? Perhaps an alliance with D’Shaa would be advantageous, then, although she is flighty and unpredictable. At the same time, she is inspired and has shown great ability to survive under adverse conditions. I could do far worse than align myself with such as her. I might even make a Declaration for her, although that might tie me too much to her, and make it impossible to be rid of her should she become a liability. Yet I need to attach her to me if I am to be sure of having some part of the boy being used by the Geas. The Empire has become unstable, but an alliance would bring some stability to my position.
How best to be rid of D’Selle then? A number of ways presented themselves, but none of them seemed quite elegant or poetic enough. D’Selle needed to suffer before being undone, not because of anything as absurd as irony, revenge or justice, but simply because D’Zel enjoyed causing others’ suffering. It was his one vice, but why else would he consent to remain on this primitive world unless it was to create suffering? What else was there to keep him entertained while the life was inexorably Drawn from the Geas over millennia? Suffering was the nature of existence and eternity, but he who imposed it on others was closer to absolute rule than anyone else.
Yes, if D’Selle was to suffer, then D’Selle’s region – the western region – would first need to be destabilised. It was time to give Goza a little more exercise, and to use the spy he had planted in the west. Then would come the culling. Ah, the delicious culling!
CHAPTER 9:
To punish and protect us
The wind was like a cold blade scraped across his throat. Minister Praxis raised his collar against it. The wind became angry and threatened to pluck him off the narrow path, which was more suited to a giddy mountain goat than any sort of sensible or civilised man. Needless to say, ahead of him Torpeth was having no trouble making prodigious leaps and finding purchase on the treacherous shoulders of the mountain. The Minister would have paid more attention to the handholds and footholds the pagan used, if it weren’t for the fact that looking upon Torpeth meant having to view his unsightly naked behind. The Minister was sure that the pagan had deliberately stopped on a couple of occasions just to see if he could get the Minister’s refined nose up his unwashed arse.
‘This is intolerable,’ the Minister declared, standing up straight. ‘What sane creatures would live up here? None. Only the madness of the Chaos could bring your people here. It is further proof of your corruption.’
Torpeth crouched and adroitly turned on one ankle to survey his charge. ‘Careful how you speak, lowlander,’ he half reprimanded and half beseeched. ‘These slopes are sacred to all of the gods, but particularly Wayfar of the Warring Winds, for at these heights nothing can be hidden from him. Here, Gar of the Still Stone has raised the earth so that we may have a privileged view of the world. Here, the freezing bite of Akwar of the Wandering Waters is felt more keenly than anywhere else. Here, Sinisar of the Shining Path is brighter and illuminates all. The air is clearer than any crystal mined by the upper village; there are rocks stronger than any man’s ability to break; the water is so pure and sustaining that it must be the food of the gods; and fires burn here without wood or any other fuel.’
‘Ha! I care not for these demons you pagans call gods,’ the Minister shouted back, although the wind all but stole his breath and words away. ‘I am not interested in their nonsense or mummery.’
‘Lowlander, be careful, please. Broken though our gods are, they are stronger here than anywhere else. None can defy Wayfar and expect to live. The warriors of the upper village only live to learn and serve his will. He will pick you up and throw you down from this mountain.’
&n
bsp; ‘Balderdash!’ the Minister yelled as the wind whipped higher and forced him to bend low or lose his place.
‘See, lowlander! The warring winds force even the proud to bow their heads.’
‘What poppycock! You pagans are just ignorant savages. By what simple-mindedness do you worship the fickle forces of nature? By what delusion do you see omens in every oddly shaped cloud, in the way leaves fall out of trees and in the manner of your bowels shifting of a morning? In the Empire nature is commanded by the Saviours and their People. We bend nature to our will so that our eternal civilisation can be ordered and built. We are not governed by silly superstition and the tired tales of your windbag of a demon.’
Torpeth leapt from his rock and threw himself down at the Minister.
‘Do your worst, pagan!’ the Minister screeched, bracing himself against the onslaught of the wind and the oncoming pagan. But his coat flared up around him and the air all but lifted him from the ground. The balls of his feet dragged against the path as he was pulled backwards towards empty space. Now he was on his toes, teetering on the edge. First his heart was in his mouth, then his stomach. If his feet followed, there would be nothing left of him. He screamed for the Saviours to intercede and preserve his life.
Torpeth collided with the Minister’s legs and wrapped his arms tightly around them. ‘Mighty Wayfar, forgive him! He does not know what he says. He is from a different world to our own. His mind has been moulded by an arrogant Empire that has wrested the People from the Geas! Killing him will show and teach him nothing.’
‘Unhand me, you snivelling pagan! I need no forgiveness from your demons. My faith will sustain me. Wayfar, you say, pagan? Better he be called Whatfor!’
The howling wind blasted them against the earth, and then ripped them away again, hurling them high into the air. The Minister landed in ungainly fashion on top of Torpeth, who was winded as the air was crushed out of him. The wind smote the Minister again, flattening him cruelly and whacking his elbow into Torpeth’s ribs.
