The Broken World Book One - Children of Another God

by T C Southwell

  “Chanter!”

  Talsy tried to run to him as the circle of fire died. The air filled with a rush of wind and the sound of beating wings. The owl vanished, and Chanter sat up, gripped the arrow shaft that protruded from his flank and jerked it out. He started to rise to his feet, and the four men rushed him. Two crashed into him so hard they sent him sprawling on his back, and one plunged a knife into his belly. Chanter twisted, cat-like, trying to scramble up and flee. The men leapt on him, forcing him onto the ground. A savage jerk of his arm knocked a cutthroat sideways, but the others pinned him down, beat him about the head with their clubs and stabbed him with rusty knives.

  Chanter summoned Crayash again, the air screaming with fire, and wielded it in an explosion that forced the thugs to leap back with yells of pain, their skin reddened and hair singed. They were upon him again with renewed vigour, shouting foul obscenities and insults. Again he wielded the fire, with identical results. The men clearly knew he would not kill them. The flames were merely painful, which only made them cut him more.

  “Chanter!” she screamed as blood oozed from his wounds.

  The air filled with the sound of beating wings. The men cursed as a whirlwind sprang up to buffet them, picking up dust that blinded them. One man fell back with a cry, pawing at his watering eyes; the others clubbed Chanter harder, trying to knock him out. A rush of fire joined the wind in a maelstrom of blazing dust. A thug rolled away, beating at his burning clothes, another screamed as his hair caught alight. The Mujar’s struggles weakened as the thugs rained blows on him.

  “Chanter, kill them! Burn them!”

  Talsy ran forward and picked up a stone. The leader turned and raised a bloody knife. She stopped and threw the rock, which landed with a clatter in the darkness beyond. The cutthroat jumped towards her, making her stumble back as the knife drew a line of blood down her arm. She picked up another stone.

  Chanter shouted, “Talsy, run! Go! Don’t let them catch you. I can’t help you now!”

  The gang’s leader revealed rotting brown teeth in a feral grin, and she hurled the rock. It hit his chest, making him growl.

  “Talsy, go!”

  A man clubbed Chanter in the face, and the swirling fire died as the Mujar slumped.

  Talsy hesitated for a moment longer, then the leader charged her, and she shrieked and fled. Garbage squelched under her feet and rats scurried from her path. Her sobbing breath drowned out the thuds and grunts of the beating Chanter still underwent, even though he was unconscious.

  By the time she stopped, she gasped through a raw throat, her lungs burnt, and she shook. She leant against a shanty wall and gave in to uncontrollable sobs. One thought pounded in her brain and gave her solace. They could not kill him, no matter what they did. They could make him suffer, though, and they would throw him in a Pit. Because of her.

  Chanter paid the price for her stupidity in getting lost in the slums and not seeking shelter from the prowlers when all the others had. Now she regretted asking him to protect her; better that she had been raped and beaten than for Chanter to be thrown into a Pit. Living death. Before that, he would suffer at the hands of cruel, pitiless men who hated Mujar with a fanatical intensity born of envy and contempt.

  As her breath slowed and her pounding heart quieted, she regretted running so far to escape the sounds of the brutal beating and the stench of blood and sweat. She should have stayed close enough to follow them and rescue Chanter. Her cowardice shamed her, and she raged at her inability to defend herself, which had drawn the Mujar into this terrible situation. Afraid that she had lost him forever, she tried to retrace her steps, but soon realised she was hopelessly lost. Fresh tears coursed down her cheeks as she slumped to the ground, hating herself for bringing such suffering to the gentle Mujar.

  Chanter became aware that someone dragged him along a road by his legs. He wondered why Lowmen always vented their hatred in savagery and bloodletting, even when they knew they could not kill him. Perhaps to make him suffer, yet Mujar did not feel pain like Lowmen did. The real pain came with healing. Dolana drained his energy and willpower. He longed for Crayash, but it would not answer his call, denying him even a little warmth. His grasp on the Power had been snuffed out when he had lost consciousness, and now he could not regain it.

  His head bounced over rocks on a rough dirt street, then grated on smoother cobblestones. It seemed his captors had broken almost every bone in his body. Certainly his arms and legs were fractured, some of his ribs, and maybe a few others. Pain burnt in him with hot intensity, fuelling his rage. He opened his eyes.

  The two men who dragged him stopped, and another banged on a stout door. After a few moments, a sour-face man opened it.

  “What do you want?”

  The man held up a lantern to examine the dirty group. He noted their burns and bruises with a scowl, clearly deducing that they had been in a fight. His eyes fell on Chanter, and he leant closer, then straightened with a startled curse.

  “That’s a Mujar!”

  The thugs’ leader leered. “We know. That’s why we brought ’im. Thought you an’ yer cronies might like to cut ’im up afore he goes in the Pit.”

  The man stroked his grey goatee. “Yes, yes, we would. How much do you want?”

  The cutthroat shrugged before naming a high figure. The two wrangled for a few minutes before agreeing on a sum. The bearded man, whom Chanter deduced was a doctor, left to fetch it, then told them to bring the Mujar inside. They dragged Chanter into a cellar, his head bouncing on stone steps until he lost consciousness again.

  After the street thugs left, Doctor Jashon Durb inspected his acquisition, lighting another two lanterns. The Mujar lay still, his eyes closed. No breath stirred his chest, yet a pulse beat in his neck. His throat was cut from ear to ear, which explained his lack of respiration. From the odd angles of his limbs, the cutthroats had hurt him badly. Still, it did not matter. No Mujar had been seen in a city for over twenty years, and he had always longed to dissect one. His fellow doctors, and the professors at the nearby medical college, would no doubt pay handsomely for the privilege of joining him in his study of Mujar anatomy, a mystery until now. He would consult Tranton, the local Mujar expert, on the best way to keep his subject under control while he carried out his tests.

  Although fairly sure that the Mujar was too badly injured to escape, and without water could not heal, Jashon dragged a heavy beam across the cellar and pinned him under it, just in case. Earthpower would keep his victim weak, and in the morning he would call Tranton. Satisfied, Jashon blew out the other two lamps and returned to bed, where his plump but comely wife waited.

  Chanter woke in black stillness. A heavy weight lay across his hips, and agony coursed through him in endless waves. Dolana’s creeping cold was strong, so he was underground, and he wondered if he was in a Pit. He tried to call out to his brothers, but his jaw was broken and his throat slit. Surely they would know he was here? They would bring water for healing, if there was any.

  Was the Pit dry? Would he lie in helpless agony for the next seventy-five years? The thought brought keen despair and a quiet rage that burnt beside the pain. If he was in a Pit, he was alone, for he sensed no other Mujar. He tried to sit up, but weakness held him down and his arms bent, broken above the elbows. The pain of his movements, although dulled by Dolana’s cold, caused a wave of sickness, and he slumped back. His only escape was sleep, and he consigned himself to it, grateful for the blessed unknowing of oblivion.

  Talsy jerked awake with a gasp as a rat ran over her legs, and it scuttled away. The smell of sewage and putrefaction made her gag as she crawled from the shelter of the shanty in which she had spent the night. The chill morning air nipped her through her clothes, making her hug her fur jacket closer. Hunger clenched her gut, and the salt-stiffened lashes of her swollen eyes reminded her of the weeping that had lulled her into an uneasy sleep the night before.

  The memory of Chanter’s plight sent a pang through her, and she scann
ed the street, wondering which way to go. She had to find him. She could not abandon him now. Searching this squalid metropolis was a daunting task, but she would not shirk it. He had protected her, and she had promised rescue. The thought of the previous night’s horrors brought fresh tears to sting her eyes, and she cursed, rubbing them as she headed down the alley.

  Jashon unlocked the door and hurried into the cellar at first light, eager to ensure the events of the previous night had not been a dream. The golden-skinned unman lay where he had left him, caked with dried blood. Jashon prodded him with his foot, but the Mujar’s eyes remained closed. Satisfied that his victim was still helpless, Jashon left the cellar and donned his coat for the short walk to Tranton’s house up the street. Ignoring the beggars who accosted him, he returned the greetings of merchants and housewives as he strode along the crowded, cobbled road. Houses loomed over it, washing strung across it from upper windows. Shops interspersed them, and their owners raised awnings and set out produce in anticipation of the day’s trade.

  Tranton’s modest house leant drunkenly against its neighbour, one side undermined by wood borer. Once a wealthy man, the Mujar expert now eked out a meagre living from books and so-called Mujar charms; bits of black horse hair and dried digits supposedly cut from Mujar before they were sent to a Pit. The dried fingers and ears were Trueman, Jashon knew, and possessed none of the powers Tranton claimed. Jashon’s pounding on the bleached door evinced a response in the form of an angry shout from within.

  The door squeaked open, and Tranton’s scowling face thrust into the gap. “What the hell – Jashon!”

  Jashon pushed past the elderly man, whose grey beard, stained yellow with spilt food, straggled across his chest like a malignant fungus. His greasy hair was pulled away from wrinkled features in a loose pony tail tied with a greasy leather thong. Jashon closed the door and faced his old friend, who gawped at him. Tranton’s astonishment turned to disbelieving delight when Jashon told him what he had in his cellar, and the Mujar expert insisted on inspecting the prize at once.

  They hurried back to Jashon’s house, where Tranton examined the captive.

  “By god, I never expected to see one of these bastards again. They’ve become very rare. I heard of one who was thrown into a Pit about three years ago, and there are rumours of a few still bonded to hill tribes in the mountains. But it’s been many years since one entered a city. Whoever caught him certainly made sure he isn’t going anywhere.”

  “I want to dissect him,” Jashon said. “But I heard that some doctors tried once and the Mujar escaped.”

  “They were idiots. They put him on a table, and of course he was then able to summon the Powers. They got a bit burnt, and the Mujar turned into a bird. This one is far too badly injured to do anything. Even if he could turn into a bird, he’d have broken wings.”

  Jashon nodded. “I want to move him to the medical college. How can we do that?”

  “Easy. Put him in a sack and drag him. As long as he’s on the ground, the Earthpower will keep him weak and stop him from summoning fire. Not that it would do him any good now. Since these yellow bastards won’t kill, all their powers don’t do them much good.” Tranton chortled. “You know the old saying, ‘harmless as a Mujar’.”

  “I know that. I’m only worried about him escaping.”

  Tranton grunted. “He can’t. Without healing, he’s helpless in any form.”

  Jashon fetched an old potato sack from the pantry, which they pulled over the Mujar. They lifted the beam off him and dragged him up the steps. In the street, they received many curious stares, but Jashon was a well-respected doctor, and the sight of him dragging a corpse, while odd, did not arouse any suspicions. A guard patrol offered to help, and Jashon allowed them to haul the Mujar to the college. The imposing edifice had a steep slate roof and pale stone walls fortified with black beams, and stood in an ornamental garden with a fountain in front of the entrance.

  The guardsmen dragged the Mujar through the entrance hall and down a flight of steps to dump him in the laboratory, where a crowd of curious doctors and students gathered. Jashon revealed his prize with a flourish and basked in the excited hubbub that followed. Several apprentices were dispatched to summon professors, who soon arrived to join in the excitement in a subdued fashion. The prospect of experimenting on a Mujar brought even the dean from the seclusion of his book-lined study.

  A burning pain in Chanter’s belly woke him. He writhed, his abdominal muscles becoming rigid, and opened his eyes. He lay on the floor of a grey-walled room with beams running across the ceiling, and a variety of instruments cluttered the tables around him. Fresh blood oozed from a cut in his midriff and reddened the hands of the bearded butcher who bent over him, holding a knife. The man smiled, and rage made Chanter’s heart thud. He glared at the ring of spectators, who wore avid expressions. Earthpower froze him, dulling the pain as it drained his will and denied him Crayash. He struggled weakly, his broken limbs useless, and some of the Lowmen sniggered. One spat on the floor next to his head.

  “Not feeling so good, Mujar?” the hatchet-faced torturer mocked him, grinning. “At last one of your kind does some good, satisfying our curiosity. You lot have never been any good for anything before. It makes a change, doesn’t it?”

  The Lowman’s cruelty fanned the rage that had always smouldered in Chanter’s heart, and it spilt out to burn his blood.

  One of the younger men said, “I bet he wishes he could die now!”

  Raucous laughter greeted this, and many insults were bandied about, causing more merriment.

  The torturer sliced open Chanter’s belly, and the men leant forward to peer into the incision, passing comments. Chanter’s rage grew with his suffering. Dolana was the only Power at his command, yet his weakness mocked him. Still, he summoned what little willpower he had left and wielded the Earthpower.

  Icy silence clamped down as the air froze into momentary solidity, and the utter silence of deep within the Earth pounded at his ears. Chanter grimaced, struggling to control the icy Power as it slid through him, calling for change, longing for freedom. It writhed and slipped in his grasp, a snake of cold force too strong to control with his weakened will. The manifestation was long, dragged out by his inability to use it. The frigid hush vanished as he lost his grip on it.

  Several Lowmen gasped and staggered as the Power released them, the rest stood white lipped and hard eyed.

  Tranton wheezed and waved his hands. “Don’t worry, he’s just trying to change, but he couldn’t do it. Even if he had managed, he’s still helpless.”

  Jashon frowned at his friend. “Except I don’t want to dissect a dog or donkey.”

  “He can’t; he’s too weak.”

  “Luckily.”

  A doctor said, “The last time someone tried to dissect one of these bastards -”

  “I know,” Tranton snapped. “But they put him on a table. This one’s helpless, I assure you. And anyway, Mujar are harmless.”

  Jashon bent to widen his cut, pulling aside skin and muscle to reveal shining viscera. Doctors leant forward, but their comments were disappointed.

  “Looks the same as a Trueman.”

  “Doesn’t bleed very much though, does he?”

  Jashon grunted. “That’s because he’s not Trueman.”

  A student laughed. “If he was Trueman, he’d be dead already.”

  “Obviously.” A professor shot the boy a caustic glance.

  The Mujar tried to raise his head, but flopped back. Jashon pulled coils of intestine from the incision and peered deeper into his bowels.

  “He has a liver and kidneys, just like us, only they seem smaller,” he commented. “No fat. No appendix.”

  Chanter concentrated on the Dolana again, his longing for release becoming immense as the man poked and prodded amongst his entrails. The Power twisted within him, lithe and sensuous, a sea of Dolana that filled him to the brim, its abundance defying him to wield it. Never had he struggled so hard to
grasp it in its fullness. Even when the spear had pinned him to the icy hillside, his fate had been acceptable.

  Blood pounded in his brain as he strained, and the frozen silence clamped down again. This time, he strived to frighten his tormentors into releasing him. Change was beyond his strength, but the world that had birthed him knew the call of her son and shared his substance, for he was a part of her. The icy hush winked out, and the Lowmen sighed and chuckled. Chanter sensed the world’s response to his need.

  A low rumble started within the ground, like distant thunder, and swelled. Several Lowmen frowned. The torturer paused to look at a grey-bearded reprobate, who smiled and shook his head. The rumble deepened and grew louder, and the ground shook. Lamp fittings rattled on the walls, items vibrated off tables and clattered or smashed on the floor. Chanter concentrated on his command, Dolana’s talons shredding his will. Tables walked across the floor, propelled by the vibrations running through it. Dust rained from the rafters, powdering the Lowmen’s faces. Some cried out and tried to run, but tripped and fell on the shaking floor.

  A red cloud filled Chanter’s mind, and warnings prickled his consciousness. Danger. Screams came from the street. Horses neighed and dogs barked. The crash of breaking glass slashed his ears with slivers of dissonance. His will bowed under the weight of the danger, the dread that he might kill. His grip on Dolana slipped, and he released it. The rumble died and the shaking stopped, then oblivion claimed him.

  Jashon glared at Tranton. “That was him?”

  Tranton nodded. “Trying to scare us, that’s all.”

  Jashon looked at the Mujar’s peaceful features, then at his white-faced, diminished audience.

  “Seems he had some success,” he remarked, then asked the doctors who were leaving. “What, do you think a Mujar can harm us?”