by A J Dalton
‘Arghh! Ask for forgiveness, you fool, or it’ll be the death of both of us!’ Torpeth coughed in agony. ‘I can’t take much more of this! Who cares whether he is god or demon! Can’t you see Wayfar’s strength?’
‘What, should I pray to some passing squall?’ the Minister cried above the keening wind. ‘It is naught but coincidence it should blow up when we are speaking of the manifestations of the Chaos.’ He grabbed another breath. ‘In fact, such weather is no doubt common here, so it is quite predictable it should occur during our ascent.’
‘Stubborn man!’ Torpeth wailed. ‘If you know it to be naught of Wayfar, then you know any words you recite asking for forgiveness will be as empty as the wind. Nothing will be lost, nothing will be betrayed, and much might be gained.’
‘Nothing will be betrayed, save my principles! Nothing will be betrayed, save my faith!’
‘I don’t give a rutting goat for your principles! Empty words are not so much to ask when they are exchanged for our lives.’
‘The only words that are empty are those spoken by pagans. There are no empty words in the Empire. Words that may be empty when spoken by a pagan take on weight and moment when spoken by one of the People of the Empire.’
Torpeth was slightly relieved that the wind was now so loud it had drowned out most of the Minister’s mindless rhetoric, but panicked again as the lowlander was tugged off him towards a precipice. Clouds began to come together and build. Torpeth lunged for the Minister and missed.
The Minister was rolled onto his front and dragged across the face of a boulder, the skin torn from his hands and cheek. His legs hung over the drop and his hips slid away from him.
‘Help! My friend, help me!’ the Minister gibbered.
Torpeth lunged again, nearly overshooting, and caught the scruff of the Minister’s coat. The Minister grabbed Torpeth’s beard and yanked hard.
‘Arggh! Let go so I can move back and haul you by your hands and arms!’
‘Help me, help me, help me!’ the Minister cried hysterically, his legs kicking wildly.
‘Let go! You’ll kill us both!’
The wind shrieked in delight, buffeting them and almost succeeding in somersaulting Torpeth over the top of the Minister and down into the valley far below.
‘Don’t let me drop! All right, all right! If I have offended the wind, then I ask its forgiveness!’
There was an instant lull and Torpeth managed to scrabble backwards. Then, hand over hand, he pulled the Minister up by the back of his coat. The Minister shunted his way onto the boulder and rolled onto his back, his chest heaving.
‘Come, lowlander. We must move from here before the whimsical wind changes its mind. There is a small cave up ahead where we can rest. Up! Come, I’ll help you.’
‘Saviours be praised!’ Minister Praxis muttered under his breath, watching the lowering sky carefully.
The cave was cramped but furnished with a stock of dry wood, flint and striking metal. Torpeth got a small fire going and watched as the Minister shivered. ‘I don’t suppose you are persuaded, are you?’
‘Pah! Persuaded by the changeable weather? What sort of man would I be if I changed my faith with the seasons?’ the Minister answered haughtily, although the effect was spoiled by his chattering teeth. ‘I would better ask why you insist on your pagan worship of the weather’s vagaries. It keeps you stunted and ignorant. You study nothing beyond it. You wilfully limit your potential and deny yourself enlightenment. You live within a dark cave of corruption.’
Torpeth’s brows beetled down and he brooded for long moments, looking into the insubstantial flames in front of them. Then he sighed. ‘I promised you secrets, lowlander, did I not? Know then that I honour the gods not out of baseless fear and a witless belief in the stories told by my people, but because I have long known the gods. I was once their favourite son, long, long ago. Before the others came, those you know as your Saviours, I led all the people in their worship of the gods and the Geas.’
‘What fantasy is this?’ the Minister laughed. ‘There was nothing of meaning before the coming of the Saviours.’
‘Torpeth the Great, they called me.’
‘You will have had mad visions and demonic visitations to create this alternative history of the Empire. I will not be so easily misled.’
Torpeth’s eyes became distant. ‘Through all those years of warring and conquest, I was convinced my cause was righteous and that I would create an eternal holy empire. I was sure I could create a perfect immortal race. The gods were against it, of course, and tried to warn me, but in my arrogance I thought they were simply jealous of their power over the people. I now understand that immortality is not within the nature of the Geas. I was deluded.’
‘Indeed you were. You still are, pagan.’
Torpeth’s eyes now misted. ‘Perhaps. And so the collapse of all I’d fought for was inevitable. The harm I did to the people is beyond imagining.’ His voice began to shake. ‘To think of the numbers who died under my tyranny. I broke the people, I broke the gods, I broke the land!’ He let go an inarticulate cry of anguish. Tears spilled down his cheeks. ‘It was I who made it so easy for the others. I have tried and tried, but have been unable to recover anything. I have only hastened the end for my people!’
‘Haunted dreams is all, pagan. You cannot be so old. Only the Saviours are eternal.’
Torpeth nodded. ‘In many ways I am still not old in understanding. I am a mere child. But it is true that I have existed since before the others. It is my punishment to do so, to witness the fall of everything I had striven for, the fall of the gods, the subjugation of my people by the others, and our slow decline here in the mountains. The Geas has decided I am unworthy of death and renewal. The gods have turned their faces away from me. Holy man my people may sometimes call me, but they revere me only as much as they hate, mock and pity me. They know what I am. They know my shame, for the manner of their lives has been decided by it. Even the goats shun my presence.’
‘But do you not see, pagan? You only succeed in keeping your original error alive. That is why the decline continues. That is why your corruption does not end. You are the holy man of your people, around whom their false beliefs and stories are organised. It is because of you that their worship of these false gods continues. Was it you or one like you who originally brought them to these mountains, denying them the opportunity to join the glorious Empire of the Saviours? Do you not see you are still that flawed and arrogant individual who caused all the trouble? Do you not see that you still cause such trouble for your people? Why must they live difficult and empty lives here in the mountains, when they could instead be welcomed into the civilisation of the Empire?’
Torpeth bleakly met the Minister’s eyes. ‘Perhaps the gods have sent you here to show me my error, lowlander. At the same time, they would also wish you to learn from it. Can you not see that these Saviours of yours seek to build an eternal holy empire in exactly the same way as I did? It can only end in failure again. It is a tyranny that takes freedom and lives from the people. But there will be no escape to the mountains this time, no chance of redemption. If your Saviours are not prevented, then they will see an absolute end to the gods, the people and the Geas. All will be destroyed!’
‘I will not listen to this blasphemy. Oh, but the twisting guile of the Chaos knows no limit. It matches itself to that which it envies, mimicking it so that the listener becomes confused and mistaken, and then perverts their belief and understanding. You seek to appropriate the history of the Saviours’ Empire so that you may then redefine it.’
‘Lowlander, heed my warning before it is too late. Do not make my mistake, I beg you!’
‘Ah, but you are cunning, pagan. How else is it that you still survive? But we will see, pagan, what your people say. We will see if they still wish to cling to their desperate and miserable lives here once I have told them of the bounty and forgiveness that awaits them in the Empire. You said that they despise you, did you
not? Are you surprised when your error and selfishness has imprisoned them in this wintry fastness? Given a choice, do you really think they will want to remain here, or is it more likely that they will have me lead them out of this self-imposed hell and into the promised lands of the Empire? You will finally be left here on your own, pagan, with nothing but the wind and the echo of your self-tormenting soul for company. You know it is true!’
More tears trickled from Torpeth’s eyes. ‘It grieves me that I cannot make you understand, lowlander, but perhaps you’re right. I should not be their jailer. Perhaps it is time I finally put my faith in my people and allowed them to choose for themselves. After all, just making a declared decision is a change of sorts, and something needs to change if we are ever to be free of this slow decline and the Geas is ever to flourish again. We will see then, lowlander. Yes, we will see. Just be careful not to mention the chief’s nose. He’s very sensitive about it.’
In his stupor Jillan found himself at the bottom of the large green hill. Above him, people frenziedly fought their way up the slopes. Many were trampled underfoot, none stopping to help them. People bit at each other, pulled at hair, gouged at eyes, tore at mouths, punched, elbowed and throttled. All to get beyond their neighbour or past those in front of them. All to get to the waiting line of Heroes, with their deadly sun-metal-tipped spears.
Sickened, Jillan turned his face away. To his right and left there were fissures and cracks in the base of the hill from which steam and noxious gases poured. The crack nearest him looked to be dormant, however, and wide enough for him to squeeze into if he went side on. Azual would be unable to follow him through the narrow opening, so it would be a good place to hide until he could wake up and escape this nightmare.
His armour protected him front and back as he squeezed into the crevice. He knew there was a distinct danger he would become wedged fast, but he decided that would still be better than having to face the Saint or his Heroes. He pushed deeper and deeper into the heart of the hill. The earth became soft and then ribbed and fleshy, like the brains of the hunted animals his father sometimes brought home.
He stepped into the core, a large echoing cavern. At the centre was a curiously lit statue. It was grey and unmoving, as most statues were meant to be, but the limbs of the figure were unusually thin and there was a floating feeling about it completely at odds with any statue he’d seen before. Its large head was only supported by a spindly neck, which meant that the stone of which it was made had to be impossibly strong. The figure’s face was relatively featureless, with just slits where its eyes, nostrils, mouth and ears should be. The top of the head was wider than the rest of it, even though it had been carved without hair.
Black orbs watched him, and he jumped back as he realised the eyes had opened. The living statue had not otherwise moved.
How dare you, you disgusting mite! hissed a voice out of the air.
‘I-I-I’m sorry,’ Jillan blurted.
How did you come here, into this space of the waking dream? Tell me quickly!
‘I-I don’t know,’
We know who you are! You cannot hide from us!
‘I didn’t mean any harm.’
Mean? Your meaning is not for you to decide. We decide everything!
‘Who are you?’
How dare you ask a question of us, cursed creature? We are the infinite. Cower before us!
Jillan’s knees shook and threatened to prostrate him before what could only be one of the blessed Saviours. It was a thing beyond his limited comprehension, just as he’d always been taught. He was as privileged as he was cursed to be here in the divine presence. His every fear and inadequacy were made clear to him, his crimes and blasphemies laid bare. He felt once more the guilt he always used to experience in front of Minister Praxis.
‘I-I did not mean to hurt anyone,’ he confessed. ‘I have consorted with the Chaos. I beg for forgiveness, unworthy as I am and will always be. Guide me, blessed Saviour!’
Forgiveness! the voice chided him. Your very existence is the presumption that begs forgiveness. Yet you take another breath, and another, committing the offence over and over. Your repentance is made false by it. There is only one path to forgiveness.
‘Tell me!’ he pleaded.
Find and reveal the Geas to us. Then there will be a final end to the presumption and offence. Then forgiveness will be allowed for your despicable kind. You will find and reveal the Geas to us, do you understand?
He nodded dumbly.
Then you are committed. Fail us again and we will eat you alive. The statue began to stir, first slowly and then with increasing speed. We will eat you in this space now so that you know what awaits you should you fail.
Jillan screamed and suddenly came awake. He was drenched with sweat and realised it must be because he’d been close to a fire. Someone had also placed a blanket over him.
‘He’s awake,’ called a deep voice he didn’t recognise.
‘Ah, there you are.’ Aspin smiled as he came into view. ‘You had us worried.’
Jillan craned his neck and found the blacksmith sitting on a log. He’d lost most of the dark curls from his head and there were a few conspicuous gaps in his teeth, but there was a touch of colour in his cheeks and his eyes were clear. He appeared miraculously recovered from the plague.
‘Here’s some water,’ Aspin said as he proffered Jillan a beaker. Then he whispered as he came close, ‘It’s all right, he’s trustworthy … or he’s as good as his word, at least.’
Just as there’s many a killer as good as their word.
Jillan took a drink and then quickly looked about the campfire. ‘Where’s my sword?’
The blacksmith nudged a scabbard with his foot. ‘Here. Still interested in selling?’
‘No. It’s not for sale.’
‘You sure? You’re a bit young for a blade like that. I’ll give you a good price for it.’
‘Leave it alone. It’s mine!’ Jillan replied more fiercely than he’d intended.
The blacksmith raised his hands. ‘All right, all right! Sun-metal, isn’t it? Where did you get it?’
Don’t trust him. You’ve no reason to, after all.
‘None of your business.’
The blacksmith nodded slowly. ‘You’re right, it ain’t. And it’s said I’ve you to thank for bringing me back from death’s door, Jillan.’
Jillan glared at Aspin. ‘What do you think you’re doing telling him my real name? You had no right! There are things I could tell him about you too.’
‘He already knew who you were,’ Aspin protested.
He’s a spy for the Saint!
‘Look, I didn’t have to be the smartest of men to work it out, now did I?’ the blacksmith reasoned. ‘Everyone in Saviours’ Paradise knew to be on the lookout for a fair-haired boy of your age. I’d also had word of a boy called Jillan being involved in a killing in Godsend, the place they say the plague started.’
‘How could you know these things unless you were working for the Saint? He’s watching us through your eyes right now, isn’t he?’ Jillan challenged him, throwing off his blanket.
Quick as thought, Aspin took up a thick branch from the woodpile and stood watching the blacksmith tensely. Clearly, the mountain warrior had read something in the blacksmith’s possible response that he didn’t like.
The blacksmith’s eyes slid between Jillan and Aspin. He rolled his head on his corded neck and flexed forearms as wide as Jillan’s thighs. Then he made his hands into mallet-sized fists and squeezed them until his knuckles cracked. Aspin adjusted his grip on the branch.
Suddenly the blacksmith laughed heartily, his strong voice reverberating around the clearing where the wagon had been drawn up. ‘I’m just joshing with you, lads! You’re right to be cautious, but if I meant you harm you’d have already had it and no mistaking. Young Aspin, that branch of yours would do little more than tickle my bonce, and yon wizard is too spent to be helping you any. It’ll take more than you two r
agamuffins to get the jump on Thomas Ironshoe.’
Jillan’s mouth fell open in surprise. ‘You’re Thomas Ironshoe?’
‘Aye, wizard, I am. Heard of me, have ye?’
‘I’m no wizard,’ Jillan said.
‘Why, sure ye are! Come now, there’s no shame in it. Indeed, one of my best friends is a wizard, but don’t go telling him I called him friend. Don’t want him getting too big for his britches or thinking I’ll start doing him any favours, do I? Tricksy sorts these wizards, if you take my meaning, no offence to your good self, Jillan.’
Aspin nodded. ‘I’ve had similar trouble with them too. That’s how I ended up here, and I’ve been imprisoned and had to fight for my life along the way.’
‘You know other wizards?’ Jillan asked the blacksmith. ‘Then, are you a-a …’
‘Pagan? A demon-worshipper? A consort of the Chaos? A dark corruptor of innocence? Some would say so, and those people would say precisely the same of you, wizard, would they not? Jillan, I’m just an ordinary man, with a family, hopes, dreams and fears, like everyone else. There’s a hamlet of similar folk not far from here if you’d like me to take you there? And to answer your earlier question, no, the Saint is not watching you through my eyes right now. There are ways of clouding the mind that mean he can glean very little when at some distance. I can show you the trick if you like. The least I can do, I’d say. Or have you been fortunate enough to avoid being Drawn?’
Jillan nodded slowly. Why did he still not trust this apparently affable man? After all, his parents had told him to find him Thomas Ironshoe, and Aspin seemed comfortable with him, didn’t he? ‘I’m not sure if we have time to go to your hamlet. I seek Haven, and then I have to get to Hyvan’s Cross, which is a long way from here.’
Thomas stilled. ‘What do you know of Haven? Where did you hear that name?’
‘My mother, Maria.’
‘And what is your father’s name?’
‘Jed – Jedadiah.’
