Farlander hotw-1

by Col Buchanan

  On the fifth night following the fall of the city, amidst an orgy of drinking and excess, the archgeneral's men forced the defeated officers and the town leaders one by one on to the spike's point. Impaled sideways like this, the male and female victims were drawn along its entire length, most dying in the process, until the spike was entirely filled by them. At its very tip, they placed Hano herself.

  At a signal from the archgeneral, and with a shouted salutation to the defeated queen – at least, as Valores told it – the corpse-laden spike was hoisted vertically by three hundred enslaved townsfolk, there to be planted as a permanent monument to conquest.

  It was a rousing tale and, years later, when Kirkus finally met Mokabi at a celebration for the birthday of the Holy Matriarch, Kirkus's own mother, he had found himself stuck for words in replying to the old man's kindly questions concerning his youthful studies – struck with awe at being in the presence of a living, breathing legend. But there had been something else too, something more subtle that had stilled his young tongue as he stood in front of the archgeneral and which took him several sleepless nights in his bed in the Temple of Whispers to fathom. For when young Kirkus had held the man's large hand in his own, something about that fleshy touch, cool and a little sweaty, had terrified him. Suddenly, all the stories of the general's exploits had become more than mere words on a page. This very man, his grip living and pulsing against his own, had commanded the slaughter of thousands; and not only defeated soldiers, but women and children, old men and babes. In that moment Kirkus had felt repelled by his touch, as though a mere handshake might infect him with something dreadful, something tainted. Afterwards, he imagined he could even smell blood on his hands. No matter how often he scrubbed at them, he could still smell it faintly, the metallic scent of it, when he lay alone at night with his own thoughts.

  That sensation only diminished as his fourteenth birthday came and went, and he was allowed to share his bed with his temple friends at last: Brice and Asam sometimes but, after a while, mostly Lara. With such heady new experiences to explore, he allowed himself to forget about the imagined taint of blood on his hands. During the same period his lessons in the rituals of Mann intensified. He underwent his first purging. His mother, increasingly, allowed him to witness the intrigues and responsibilities of her newly seized position on the throne. Kirkus, over time, began to lose his inner sensitivities. He learned to appreciate the necessities of the ruthless act, and the basic selfishness of compassion. And when, on those rare occasions he again found himself seized by a sense of corruption – whether a greasy door handle or a glass of wine shared between friends, even a bathing pool already used by others – he would make sure to withdraw into the privacy of his chambers before he succumbed to the compulsion to scrub himself raw. After all, he was an initiate priest of Mann, and next in line for the throne. He could not afford to appear weak.

  'Coming?' asked his grandmother, as she climbed down from the palanquin.

  Kirkus tore his gaze from the mammoth spike, and in particular the patches of rust that stained it. He stared at her for several beats of his heart before her words sank in.

  He shook his head, and watched as the old priestess wandered about the market, accompanied only by her personal slaves, freely sampling sweets and local wines. She declined an armed escort, staking her life on the intimidating power of her white robes alone, which parted the crowds everywhere as she went.

  For some time Kirkus merely sat where he was and savoured the possibilities, playing fantasies in his head of those citizens that took his fancy. At last, when he was certain of who he wanted, he rose to his feet.

  More quietly this time, he pointed out those who had caught his attention: two pretty sisters with manes of blonde hair sweeping down almost to the ground; a fat butcher who handled his cleaver like a veteran, and might offer some fight; a young man who reminded him of his boyhood friend Asam; an old fishwife with a body still lean and strong and interesting.

  The Acolytes swept through the crowds, snatching those indicated where they stood. Shouts went up, only to be lost in the general clamour of the marketplace. Kirkus watched the ensuing commotion, following its stirs and eddies spreading throughout the square. He was mesmerized by it all, as distraught friends and relatives clung to those being taken away from them, crying out for help from others crowded around them. Each was apprehended in turn and the sounds of alarm rose higher, finally beginning to usurp even the din of the busy marketplace itself.

  Kirkus knew, in that moment, that for the rest of his long life he could never grow bored of days such as this one.

  As Kira returned accompanied by a hamper filled with choice goods, she left behind her a market square of depleted stalls and baskets still spinning where they had been dropped, their owners shouting as they fled the scene, intent on passing the alarm to adjacent streets. Behind the palanquin, the sense of shock felt by the newly acquired slaves emanated like a palpable force as in turn they were fixed to chains.

  Several streets later, a man dressed in the faded leathers of a courier rode up to the head of the column, his striped zelback made jittery by the brooding atmosphere all around. The rider spoke briefly to the Acolyte captain, then handed down to him a scrap of folded paper, before he turned and kicked his mount into a canter, heading away.

  Kira read the note with growing bemusement in her eyes.

  'It would seem that word of our arrival has stirred more than just fear in this city. Listen to what it says: This evening, when you meet with High Priest Belias, study closely the fit of his robes. You will find underneath only a charlatan.'

  'Is it signed?' asked Kirkus, only partly interested.

  'A loyal subject of Mann.'

  Kirkus shrugged. 'It is the same everywhere we go,' he remarked, disdainfully. 'The high priest doubtless has his enemies, and now they hope to jostle for position while you are here.'

  'You have a fine mind when you put it to some use. You may well be right, but closely observe the man, anyway. It is a skill you must learn, to discern the true believers from the false, and yet another skill to know how to deal with them if they prove to be untrue.'

  'We then dispose of them, what more is there to know?' he replied, while his attention returned to the surrounding street, searching still.

  'Sometimes,' she crooned from behind her mask, 'your lack of imagination truly startles me. We must work on that fault.' She snapped her fingers, drawing the Acolyte captain to her. 'I think we will go to the high priest's mansion now,' she instructed him. 'I wish to rest there for a while, before we dine with this man who rules our city.'

  'As you wish,' the captain replied, with a bow of his head.

  The procession stamped onwards.

  *

  'I'm bored,' announced Kirkus to no one in particular.

  The young priest was merely a guest at this meal, yet he sat at the very head of the table, where he had been downing the heady Seratian wine as though it was water.

  'Ignore him,' recommended Kira to the family who played host to them this evening. 'He is merely drunk.'

  Belias, the high priest of the city, and therefore its governor, acknowledged this statement with a brief if slightly nervous smile, whilst dabbing a handkerchief at the sweat gathering upon his bald pate. He felt oddly out of place here this evening, even though they were dining in the banqueting hall of his own mansion, where he was playing host to these two arrivals from far-off Q'os, the seat of the Holy Empire of Mann. Maybe it was the way the old priestess kept looking at him, something unspoken in her gaze.

  Once more he wished they would finish eating and retire to their rooms for an early night. Belias needed to speak to his staff, find out if the city populace had heeded his hastily called curfew. Yet for the last two hours he had been trapped at the dining table with these guests, feigning interest in the old woman's talk while he eyed the rate at which they consumed their food and drank their wine, trying through simple prayer to hurry them up. Surely
they must be sated soon?

  By his elbow, his plump wife sat in silence. She was dressed in the finest of farlander silks, and sported jewels extravagant enough for a queen, or at least a minor, provincial queen. Again, she cast a demure glance towards the handsome young priest, sitting like a king at the head of the long table; again Kirkus pointedly ignored her attentions. Belias, too, pretended not to notice. He was hardly surprised by his wife's flirtations. She had always been drawn to power – it was why she had married him in the first place

  He looked across at his daughter, Rianna. Belias often looked to his daughter when in need of a little support. She was whispering something to her fiance, a man ten years her elder. He was an entrepreneur of the patrician class, who had finished his food long ago and watched all three priests seated at the table with barely concealed distrust.

  They were a jolly group, for sure, as they dined silently in the draughty hall, listening to the rain gusting against the windows of stained glass, the munching of food and the tapping of cutlery against plates, the occasional civil comment; that and the cries of the slaves squatting out in the rain in the gravel driveway outside.

  Belias had been informed by his chancellor of the occurrences in the streets of Skara-Brae earlier that day. That was partly why he was sweating so badly, and why he had to feign an appetite for the cold remnants of his food. The city folk were in an uproar, by all accounts. They wanted their loved ones back; failing that, they wanted blood. It worried him greatly, these sudden public displays of anger, for Belias understood the Nathalese only too well, and how easy it would be to tip them into open revolt. After all, he was Nathalese himself.

  'Are you quite all right, High Priest?' inquired Kira kindly, though he suspected that any kindness exhibited by this woman was more akin to a cat's toying with a mouse. Belias tried to compose himself. No, he was hardly all right. This old witch was the mother of the Holy Matriarch herself, and that lout, lolling in his chair at the head of his table was nothing less than the Matriarch's only son, likely next in line for the throne. It was enough to drive a simple priest from the provinces to distraction.

  'I'm fine,' he heard himself reply to the old priestess. 'I was just wondering… you see… why you needed to acquire so many slaves today?'

  The old woman sipped delicately at a glass of wine, fixing her gaze on him over its rim. She smacked her lips. 'My oaf of a grandson there is soon to undergo his initiation,' she explained, in a voice creaking like old stairs. 'We have been gathering what things we need for the ritual, stopping here and there along the river, at whichever towns take our fancy. I have brought him on the grand progress this last year, you see. I am sure, being a high priest, you have undertaken the pilgrimage yourself.' And for a moment she held up the crystal goblet to study it, as though looking for imperfections, and Belias saw her focus on him through its transparency.

  Belias nodded, smiling like an idiot, not entirely offering an answer. No, he had never taken the grand tour himself, though he was not about to inform her of that fact. It was long, and hideously expensive if one wished to see it through in any comfort, and it involved all manner of orgies and ritual taboo-breaking along the way that would probably finish off his weakened heart for good. Somehow, Belias had just never quite got around to it.

  'I see,' said Kira, whereupon Belias let the smile drop from his face. He didn't know what she saw, but his heart began to thump a little faster. He forced a slice of sweetroot into his mouth, a simple act of outward composure – though he spoiled the attempt when he tried to swallow, choking on the barely chewed morsel.

  His daughter passed him a goblet of water, an expression of concern creasing her forehead. He drained it dry and smiled at Rianna in thanks. She wore a dress of soft green cotton this evening, complementing her red hair and cut high enough to hide the seal she always wore about her neck, at his own fatherly insistence. Belias had snapped at her earlier, privately, for thus hiding the seal from sight, as she always did in company. It was of no use worn like that, he tried to tell her. It is not a deterrent if people do not see it. But Rianna had never fully understood the risks involved in being the daughter of the city's high priest. In a way, he hoped that she never would.

  He now regretted those harsh words to her earlier as, across the table, his daughter returned his smile. He knew that she had already forgiven him. She always forgave him.

  He was glad, at least, that these two priestly visitors had not turned the conversation to matters of doctrine and ritual tonight. He had always tried to shelter Rianna from the dark heart of this religion, its secrets and hidden rituals. He cherished her innocence; it was the only bright light in his otherwise mundane life.

  'Look at him, there!' The old priestess now jabbed a finger at her grandson, though only half seriously, causing her host Belias to flinch. 'Drunk on wine and full to bursting and still he complains that he is bored. Would you believe he has seen an entire empire pass beneath his heels these last twelve moons, sights that only a privileged few will ever be fated to witness? No, he merely whines for more, like the spoiled child he is.'

  Kirkus belched loudly at that.

  There is no lord but thy own self, Belias silently recited, as though suddenly he was indeed a true devotee of Mann, while he covertly took in the intoxicated condition of the young priest sprawled in his chair. Could this truly be the next leader of both an empire and a faith that spanned two continents, and at least forty different races?

  Unlike many of his fellow countrymen who would rather fight until independence or death if they could, Belias was by his own reckoning a realist. It was a trait he judged far superior to any other in his life, and which he found miserably lacking in his fellow Nathalese. Save, perhaps, for the merchant classes, who knew a good business opportunity when it came crashing through their doors boot-first.

  All those years ago, when the imperial army had first rolled up to the Nathalese borders, and broken through almost without pause, he had recognized the future imperial occupation for what it truly was – an inevitability. And so, after the final stand of Queen Hano and her forces right here in this ill-fated city, which he had been fortunate enough to escape, through being far away with his wife and child on his family estate, and being the ambitious young politician that he was, Belias had switched sides accordingly. He became, of all things, a priest of Mann, seeing this as the only way to advance politically within the new order. It had been a simple enough business. All he needed to do was study for three years at the newly opened temple complex in Serat, where all manner of provincials were studying likewise to take on the robes of the order, and then to brave his way through the Cull, that mysterious ritual which would also signify his final initiation into the creed of Mann.

  It had worked well, his change of allegiance – and Belias liked to remind himself of this, and of the subsequent success of that decision, during those darker nights when his conscience plagued him. He was now, after all, the governor of his very own city.

  But, despite all such pragmatism, or perhaps because of it, Belias understood his less sophisticated countrymen only too well. An episode like today, a public press-ganging throughout his city, might well be enough to trigger a revolt, despite the threat of total retaliation that would be anticipated by all. If that uprising happened, High Priest Belias was undoubtedly a dead man. He would be the first to be strung up by the populace, seen as the traitorous figurehead that he was. And even if he somehow avoided such a lynching, the priesthood itself would finish him off for allowing such a revolt to occur in the first place. They would denounce him as weak, and no true priest of Mann at all, and he would be disrobed by their favoured method of disrobing one of the order – by sticking him on top of a burning pyre.

  And all of this because of these fanatics from Q'os, sitting here at his dinner table, in his own home, in his city, gorging themselves on his food, while their stinking slaves cluttered up his driveway. It would be their fault if the citizens revolted, and their n
ecks might even join his own in the noose. But that would not provide much by way of compensation. Dead was dead, after all.

  Mann, the high priest reflected sourly. The divine flesh. Belias had made a point of learning everything he could about this all-consuming religion he had bought into. And he believed he understood it for what it truly was.

  The Holy Order of Mann had not always been so holy. Once, it had been nothing more than a dark urban cult, a rumour whispered among the city states of the Lanstrada, where it was used as a threat by mothers to frighten their children into obedience. But that was before the same furtive cult had risen to dominance in the rich city state of Q'os – a populace gripped by fear and superstition induced by years of disease and failing crops – where the cult had seized power in a coup known as the Longest Night.

  Driven by their victory and ambitions to consolidate their power as quickly as possible, the cult invested the vast reserves of wealth now under its control into reforming the city's army into a machine fit for conquest; their dream, to spread the Mannian philosophy throughout the known world. At first, their military endeavours did not go so well. But, eventually, armed with a new design of cannon – more accurate, less prone to exploding unexpectedly and requiring a smaller quantity of blackpowder – their fortunes on the battlefield finally turned. This led to an era of invasion and dominance that saw the brutal forging of an empire in little less than fifty years and, in the process, changed the very nature of warfare.

  During those five decades in power, the cult had purposely wrapped itself in divinity. Over a relatively short period of time it had grown into a state religion, with many of its earliest customs hardening into tradition. The Cull was one such example. For the neophyte priests it was a ritual of initiation, in which they would lose the tips of their little fingers then proceed to murder an innocent with his bare hands, such a breaking of taboo being intended to hone the primal self into a point unstoppable.