Peregrin

by A. Sparrow

  “Ah! Those small carts you see?” said Miric. “I believe they bear items consigned to the Temple.”

  “Oh … well, that’s good.” He hoped there would be a crock or two of brined peppers or prickly pears under the canvas.

  He noticed two men shuffling behind the carts in shackles.

  “Those prisoners, are they—?”

  “Nalkies,” said Miric. “The very perpetrators of the act, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Excellent,” said Benka, perking up. “The Elder Brothers will be most pleased to have subjects for their rites. Some feared we would have no blood with which to assuage our Lord Cra.”

  “These men are not ordinary Nalkies,” said Miric. “They wield a powerful sorcery.”

  “Sorcery, you say? We’ll see about that.”

  Benka couldn’t share his knowledge, but he had reasons to believe there were causes beyond necromancy for what happened in the gorge. He would not be surprised if what had happened related somehow to the stones of the Giep’o Philosophers and a place called Ur.

  ***

  The tether fixed to the donkey cart pulled tight and yanked Bimji to the ground for what must have been the hundredth time. One of the Crasacs escorting him chattered and snorted as he had each time Bimji had fallen. His companion was not quite as amused.

  “He cracks his skull it’s going to be you dragged behind a cart, Sif. The Brothers will want him fresh for the rites.”

  “Not my fault they’re clumsy,” said the other Crasac.

  The cart dragged Bimji through the dust before he could scramble to his feet with the aid of the Crasacs. His bare shoulder stung from a fresh scrape. Both knees were already shredded. Drops of blood seeped from a contusion on his chin.

  What worried him most was the crunching in his knee joint from an injury inflicted by a Polu’s staff. The knee was swelling and he could barely swing it. He feared he would fall again.

  Tarikel fared even worse. Both of his eyes were swollen shut from beatings. Shoeless, his feet were mangled and caked with blood and mud. On the climb up to the plateau he had spent as much time on the ground as upright, and now he staggered on the verge of collapsing yet again.

  “Hold on just a little ways longer, Tarikel. It’s not much farther.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Tarikel. “Dying now might be better than what’s in store.”

  They passed through the Temple village and a cordon of camp followers. Some jeered and tossed pebbles at them, but many stood silent and fearful. The peaked tents of the Crasac garrison lay just behind a row of merchants’ shanties. To Bimji’s surprise, the carts didn’t turn but continued down the lane.

  “Tarikel … they’re taking us to the Temple.”

  “Of course they are. We’re more than petty criminals. After all … we unleashed the wrath of Cra.”

  One of the Crasacs scolded Tarikel and batted him with the side of his lance.

  Bimji stared at the gleaming Temple dome and the dark pinnacle impaling it. He had often admired it from far below in the valleys, marveling at its shine and how it looked the same from every direction. He never imagined ever coming so close to it. The modest shrines in the Verden and Maora colony settlements did not approach this one’s grandeur.

  A contingent of Cuerti waited for them at a checkpoint beside the lane.

  “We’ll take them from here,” said a lieutenant. “Return to your command.”

  “Mercy of Cra,” said the Crasacs. They pressed their foreheads against the ground and prayed.

  The lieutenant lifted the mat covering the goods in one of the carts and grinned. “The Alar’s going to be happy. They managed to rescue some of his booty. I count at least four crocks under here.”

  “Any smoke leaf under there, Sir?”

  “Never mind,” said the lieutenant. “Even if there is, it’s not for us, it belongs to the Brotherhood.”

  The Cuerti untied Bimji’s tether and brought him around to where Tarikel, unbound as well, lay crumpled in the weeds. The lieutenant strolled over and studied them like a man shopping for meat.

  “Not much left of this one,” said the lieutenant. “Bring along the stronger of the pair for now.”

  “Should we finish this one off, then?” asked one of the other Cuerti.

  “Not yet,” said the lieutenant. “First, let’s see what this man has to offer.”

  They led Bimji up a steep rise to the Temple. It was much larger than it seemed from a distance. Its seamless white stone sheathing practically glowed. Its shape and dimensions seemed inhuman. It looked more like something an insect would create—a mud-dauber wasp, perhaps. His stomach rippled at the sight of the towering obelisk of Cra, flared head rearing like a hooded snake.

  They passed through a gated gap in the dome that led directly into a circular courtyard, eccentric to the larger circle of the temple building. From a bird’s eye, Bimji surmised it must look like a crescent with points touching—like pincers closing.

  They passed the base of Cra’s figure and the lesser gods behind him to enter a chamber that the Alar and the Brothers apparently used to view ceremonies in the courtyard. Bimji was glad to see some of the aura of Venep’o invincibility dashed by ordinary mud brick walls used to construct the interior. Some were plastered over with grey lime and bore intricate murals, but when it came down to it, the bones and flesh of this Temple was not much different from a typical farmer’s hut in Gi. It was larger of course, but a large enough clan could replicate it. This realization quelled some of Bimji’s fears. These men who had taken him were only that. Men.

  The lieutenant paused at the threshold of the next room and bowed his head to someone inside. He turned to Bimji’s escorts.

  “Bring him in,” said the lieutenant. “The Alar is ready.”

  A tall man, his thinning hair braided and grey, lounged on a stone bench beside a porcelain basin large enough to be a farm pond. He wore a robe of a blue deeper than any sky. Gold brocade ornamented its seams. A pair of Elder Brothers, high priests of the Sinkor faith, flanked him in blue robes of their own.

  Bimji was shocked to find himself in the presence of the Alar himself. Among the Giep’o he was a nearly mythical figure, rarely seen and rumored to be a being beyond human—a demi-god or demon. He felt the already rapid pace of his heartbeat pick up.

  The Elder Brothers were two of the oldest and feeble men that Bimji had ever seen. He doubted that any man or woman in Gi had ever lived as long as these two. Their hands looked like the dead branches of mountain cedars that strove to defy the limits of tree line. Their features were lost in folds and wrinkles that obscured completely how they looked when they were young.

  Bimji feared the worst. Old men had little sympathy for sufferers. This ordeal would not be gentle.

  “Sit him down, Lieutenant,” said the Alar. “The man must be tired. He walked all the way from Siklaa.”

  “Mercy of Cra,” said Bimji, as he descended to the clay floor, grateful but suspicious.

  “You’re not actually Sinkor, are you?” said the Alar, in Giep’o clear but strongly accented.

  “I am not,” said Bimji.

  “What is your profession?”

  “I am a farmer,” said Bimji.

  “Address the Alar properly!” said the lieutenant, glowering.

  “Oh, let him speak how he would to his neighbor,” said the Alar. “Let’s see if we can make friends.”

  “As you wish, your Excellency,” said the lieutenant.

  “So tell me,” said the Alar. “What do you grow?”

  “Grains and pulses mostly,” said Bimji. “Some flowers.”

  “No beets?”

  “Every farmer in Gi grows beets.”

  “Don’t they?” said the Alar, shuddering.

  One of the ancient Brothers began coughing. “I have a question,” he said, hoarsely.

  “Of course,” said the Alar, extending his palm.”Please, Brother Yiall.”

  “To which �
��.” He coughed again. “Deity ….” Cough. “Do you ascribe the success of your foul deed?”

  The question marked the Elder as a quaint Sinkor traditionalist, the kind who thought that all acts involved a struggle between the wills of three deities. A Cra supremacist would never ask such a thing. To them, Cra ruled all.

  “None of your three, that’s for sure,” said Bimji, not caring if he offended. It wasn’t clear that self-preservation lay in his best interest. Hastening his execution might mean less suffering.

  The old man cursed him in Venep’o, and made to strike him with a staff.

  “Now, now, Brother Yiall,” said the Alar. The old man hunched over in a fit of coughing. “I think what the Elder Brother meant to ask is … what exactly did you conjure in Siklaa Gorge … and how did you conjure it?”

  “We conjured nothing,” said Bimji. “It was just fire … and smoke … and thunder.”

  “Thunder? What kind of thunder undoes the stone work of a thousand men?”

  “I … don’t know,” said Bimji, truthfully.

  “Would it have anything to do with a place called Ur?”

  “Never been to such a place,” said Bimji.

  “But maybe you know someone who has? Perhaps this other man … has gone there?”

  “Tarikel? No. He’s just a trapper. He goes the same places I go.”

  “You are both Nalkies, are you not?”

  “No such thing,” said Bimji. “That’s just a name you Venep’o slap on those who offend you.”

  A slow, sly grin spread across the Alar’s lips.

  “Cage him,” said Benka. “This one’s feisty. I think we’re going to enjoy playing with this one.”

  Chapter 8: Caged

  Bimji’s joints screamed to be stretched. He struggled to find a more comfortable contortion in a cage barely fit to house chickens. Urine soiled his tattered trousers.

  He wheezed with every breath, his lungs fouled from the tainted fluids the Cuerti had forced him to inhale. A fever smoldered in his brow, bringing nightmares and waking visions.

  Over the first nine days he had been let out of the cage for frequent and brutal interrogations, but it had been a full day since his last session with the Sergeant of the guard. One of the Elder Brothers often attended these sessions, but the Alar had lost interest in him early on. While the torture had extracted some elaborate fantasies from Bimji, it uncovered few truths beyond what they already knew.

  People hurried past, barely casting a glance towards the cages. The sun disappeared behind the Temple mound. Pre-occupied by preparations for the festivities that day, his captors had forgotten to feed him. Or perhaps it was their intention to let him starve.

  Bimji felt his will dissipate. The slender strand of hope he had clung to throughout the ordeal slipped from his grasp. Thoughts of family that had helped him withstand the long days of torture could no longer sustain him. He resigned himself to die alone.

  As dusk fell, the Temple on the hill reverberated with music and prayer. Soldiers and colonists and converts alike had gathered to celebrate the birth of Pasemani, one of the three deities that formed the Brotherhood of the Sinkor Natadi.

  The masses in the Temple dome overflowed onto the hilltop. One gathering of Sinkor converts droned in unison:

  We pray to the Three Brothers of Sinkor Natadi,

  We beg for the Mercy of Cra, Bringer and Taker of life,

  Soothe him with the blood of conquest

  We strive for the Wisdom of Fanhalahun, the Shrewd

  Make our industries prosper, our enemies’ wither

  We hope for the Salves of Pasemani, the Healer

  Mend our wounds, ease our grief

  To Cra, Fanhalahun and Pasemani, we pray

  The ceremony ended with a prolonged silence. Drummers broke it with a sputtering rhythm quickly joined by drones of wind and string.

  Flames guttered from oil lamps along the walkway, bathing the cages in an amber glow. A Crasac sentry making his rounds came by and whacked the cage next to Bimji’s with the shaft of his halberd. The man inside grunted. His rattling breath had been weakening all day. He would be dead before Bimji could even learn his name.

  The guard lingered to urinate against a boulder. Bimji shoved a bent knee into one corner to straighten out the other leg and within a minute the bent leg cramped and he had to shift again. Comfort was a lost cause.

  “Settle down in there or I’ll smack you,” said the guard. Drawing duty on what was perhaps the most pleasurable holiday in the Venep’o culture, no wonder he was in a foul mood. He glared at Bimji and moved on down the walkway.

  As stars blazed through the veil of twilight, Bimji bobbed his head and chanted to cover the pain. When a feminine whisper penetrated his trance, Bimji thought it was a dream.

  “Tarikel?” she said. “Are you Tarikel?”

  Bimji opened his eyes. A woman stood before him, the diaphanous panels of her dress wafting in the warm breeze.

  “Tarikel is dead,” said Bimji.

  “You’re certain?” said the woman.

  Bimji glared at her, his foggy mind not comprehending why a Venep’o celebrant would be seeking a Nalki prisoner.

  “Why do you care?” said Bimji. It hurt to keep his scratched and parched eyes open so he closed them.

  “My name is Teo,” she said. “We came to free Tarikel. My comrades wait in the fields.”

  “Don’t be foolish,” said Bimji. “This is the Alar’s Temple. There are garrisons here. Crasacs, Cuerti.”

  “We know,” said Teo, looking down the ranks of cages. “Where is Tarikel kept?”

  “You’re too late,” said Bimji. “They dragged his carcass out to the jackals days ago.”

  Teo’s posture sank. “Paoala will be crushed.”

  “You know of Paoala?” said Bimji, eyes flashing open. “She survived?”

  Teo pressed her face against the bars of the cage. “Are you the one called Bimji?”

  Bimji re-opened his eyes at the sound of his name. This Teo dressed like a local concubine, one of the many allowed into the Temple grounds to partake in the festivities surrounding this eve of Pasemani’s birth. Though her diction was nearly perfect, a slight clipping of her vowels gave away her Sesep’o origin.

  “Paoala came to us a week ago,” said Teo. “She told us what happened in Siklaa. And that you … you were with them.”

  “Who are you?” said Bimji. “You’re … Sesep’o.”

  “Cadre,” said Teo, who seemed annoyed to have to admit it.

  “You shouldn’t linger,” said Bimji. “Go … or they’ll put you in a cage like me.”

  “Not tonight, they won’t,” said Teo. “Six long bows cover us as we speak. The Cuerti are busy up the hill chewing aramis with Pasemani and having their visions. Only the sentries are clear of mind tonight and we have them marked for death.”

  “One guard just passed,” said Bimji.

  “His next pass will be his last,” said Teo. She fiddled with the latch to the cage. Bimji noticed specks of blood dappling her dress.

  “Don’t waste your lives on the likes of me,” said Bimji. “I’m already half-dead. Save yourselves. Go.”

  “You seem lively enough to me,” said Teo.

  “I only ask a favor,” said Bimji. “There is an Urep’o woman who lives near Sinta. Her name is Lizbet. Tell her … and her children … that you saw me. That my soul will be with them.”

  “Tell them yourself,” said Teo. “You’re coming with us.”

  “You don’t understand,” said Bimji. “My legs are ruined. I’ve been fed poisons that burn my lungs and make my eyes bleed. I’m drowning inside.”

  “You’re delirious,” said Teo. “Whatever’s wrong with you, we can heal. Particularly, if you know something about those weapons you used in the gorge. Where did they come from?”

  Bimji recognized the line of questioning that his torturers had inflicted on him for days on end. His head cleared as if his sinuses h
ad been flooded with pungent spice. His mind swam with suspicion. This Teo was one of them. They were just trying a new tack.

  “You’re a Cra lover, aren’t you?” said Bimji.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You work for the Alar.”

  “Never,” said Teo. She jammed a pointy blade into the hasp and pried it off. The cage door popped open. “Come.”

  Bimji shoved himself against the back corner of the cage. “I’m not leaving.”

  “Come! It should be obvious I am no Venep’o, nor a sympathizer.”

  “What animal … what animal sleeps behind waterfalls and eats the sky?” said Bimji. It was an old Nalki code phrase, used only within the innermost circles of the clans.

  “A rijik, of course,” said Teo, citing the rarest bird in Gi – a river swallow – without hesitation.

  Gravel crunched under boot. The Crasac sentry had completed another circuit around the base of the temple hill. He came upon them before Teo could react. Bimji pulled the cage door closed and held it.

  “Move along,” said the sentry, striding up to her. “This area is closed to guests.”

  A group of celebrants spilled down the hillside, weaving and stumbling arm-in-arm towards the garrisons, obviously under the influence of aramis. The revelers included a pair of Cuasar cavalry officers, still wearing their spurs.

  “Look, some little whore has discovered our menagerie,” said one of the Cuasars. “She had better not be feeding them.”

  “Be careful, our pets bite,” said the other Cuasar. Their female companions giggled.

  “Come, join us,” said the first, grasping Teo’s wrist. “We’ll show you how why Pasemani is the god of pleasure.”

  Teo wriggled free. “I’m spoken for,” she said.

  “By whom? This man?” said the first officer, referring to the sentry. “He’s on duty.”

  Out of the shadows flew six arrows, each precise and deadly. The two Cuasars fell with barely a gasp.

  “Don’t you two even squeak!” hissed Teo to the concubines. “Or you’ll bleed in the dirt with your boyfriends.”

  She threw open the cage door and helped Bimji out. Every joint and articulation in Bimji’s body felt stuck with a knife. Teo took his arm over her shoulder and fled with him into the night.

  Chapter 9: Civilized