Initially, he had been placed with the rest of the common criminals. He was astounded that they had not simply put him to death. That would have been his solution. But he had been too consumed with anger at his imprisonment to wonder why.
The jail where he was kept held no fear for him. He dwarfed the other inmates. After several of them had been found with broken necks by the guards, and with no one willing to point the finger at him, he had been moved to one of the few solitary cells.
That cell had been his crucible. The pressure of isolation had threatened to drive him insane. Up until then, he thought he could exist alone; he had no need for people, he told himself. But without a target to manipulate, intimidate or destroy, madness pushed in at him from the walls of his dark cell. The guard ignored his attempts to bait them. None of them ever got close enough for him to even spit upon. It gotten so oppressive that he decided to leave by tearing down the cell, brick by brick. He had begun clawing at the walls. The pain as his nails were torn from his fingers barely registered. Eventually, he began pummelling the stone with his fists. He remembered laughing as his blood sprayed over the wall; laughing until tears streamed down his face, blurring his vision.
The guards must have intervened. When he came around his hands had been bandaged, but he had not been removed from the cell. Even death would have been preferable to the continued torment. It was only after he had let go of his initial rage at reawakening in the barren cell that he noticed the book. His first thought had been to destroy it. Despite not having the use of his hands, he could still have rid himself of it. He assumed that it had been put there to goad him. The guard would know that a savage such as him would not know how to read.
That was where the bastards had made their mistake. People assumed that his size and power precluded him from using his intellect, and while it was true he had revelled in spilling blood and destruction, he had learned at a very early age that the best defence was to leave your enemy guessing. So he had taken the book and he had hidden it, to the best of his ability, in his small cell. Then he had focused on reading it. It had been necessary to wait for his hands to heal before he could manage to read anything other than the title.
“The Teachings of Wist.”
He had heard this religious drivel before. He had even lived in a church orphanage when he was young. That was where he had learned the basics of reading and some mathematics. More importantly, they had taught him how to defend himself, not that he usually found the need. His stature had been enough to dissuade all but the slowest of bullies and perverts. To those whom had persisted, he had been ruthless in correcting their point of view.
The price for lodgings and meagre rations at the orphanage was to listen to occasional sermons and sing some Praises. After hearing his woeful efforts, he had been excused from the choir. To keep him busy he had been used as a general runner, assigned menial tasks and errands that the clergy presumed themselves to be above. This had provided him with access to storerooms and supplies; rations, cloth, parchment, oil, blessed water and even, very occasionally, gold. As soon as he had been assigned the role, he had begun thieving. He had not bothered starting small, therefore it had not been long before he was caught. The old monk that had discovered him had simply asked him why. Was a roof over his head and food on his plate not enough; did he have to steal? He had not bothered supplying an answer. He had driven a knife up under the old man’s rib cage. The dying priest had sounded as if he was drowning as he collapsed on to the floor: there had been so much blood. He had grabbed whatever meagre possessions he could lay his hands on, and had fled into the dark under-city.
In the cell, when he began the book, he had spat curses at it. The idea of a man who was willing to give everything up for nothing infuriated him. All of his life he had grasped at every opportunity, every object, every chance that had fallen his way. Yet it seemed the harder he held on, the faster he crushed the life from his dreams. The deeper he delved into the book the more he began to question his choices in life, the ones that had led him here. Had his life not always been spent in a prison, of one form or another? Far from providing him with an escape from the crushing isolation, the tome had provided him with a merciless examination of his failures. Again, he had been tempted to dispose of the repellent text, but he found that he was powerless to do so, for even the self-flagellation that the book provided was preferable to the insanity that was his only alternative.
When Kerk had completed reading the book, his situation had not changed; he still sat in the same stinking hole. But now the oppressive panic that had been threatening to overwhelm him had gone. He could now set aside the desperate fight that had been his life and find peace, but even this had unsettled him: chaos and violence had encapsulated his entire existence. Eventually the meditative techniques outlined in the teachings had brought clarity to his mind - he had found his calling in life. Unfortunately, it was too late for him.
Early one morning, while deep in a state of contemplative prayer, a man came to his cell. He stood and watched Kerk for some time. He made no attempt to communicate with him and made no effort to alert him to his presence. As motionless as Kerk, this man simply observed. Long before Kerk reached the end of his prayer ritual, the man departed, his plain brown robes cut just high enough above the ground to avoid sullying them in the human effluence with which the prison swam. Unaware of the observer’s visit, Kerk sat in his cell contemplating his life until the next set of prayers should be performed.
The man returned the next morning. Every morning after that for the next two score days he came back, staying a little longer each time, until the day he remained standing after Kerk opened his eyes upon completion of the devotion. Kerk looked the unremarkable man over, noting his plain robes and passive face. He had assumed that this man had come to mock him, or perhaps he had come to denounce him for performing sacred acts of worship in a stinking jail. The thought had occurred to Kerk that this holy man had come to announce his execution. This was ludicrous; there was no-one to witness the spectacle, and the Church would not waste its efforts on such a fruitless display. Just as he took in his observer, so his watcher continued his vigil. But after a few seconds, the man turned and left, neither feeling it necessary to acknowledge the other’s presence.
This pattern continued in the days that followed, each day the monk staying a little longer. His expressionless mien never altered. He adopted the same pose every day; arms folded in front of him resting on his oversized stomach. Only once had Kerk been tempted to shout at this pompous fool, but the notion passed as quickly as it had come to him. Where once his rage had been an unstoppable torrent, he could now stem its flow; push back against the tide. His level of self-control pleased him greatly. If the monk had noticed the passing storm, he had shown no sign.
The next day the monk had not been present when he emerged from his trance. He had assumed that, unable to garner a reaction from the prisoner, the monk had grown tired of his game and returned to whatever tasks awaited him at his monastery. Later that same day he heard the sound of booted feet approaching his cell. Outside of the times when he was fed, there was never anyone near him. Sometimes he would hear screams or shouts from those that had been chosen for torture that day, or those whom were dragged out for public execution. The footsteps that approached him did so with authority and purpose. He looked to see five figures approach his cell: the two who led the way were obviously guards - the same ones that threw his dinner through the gap in the bars, when they remembered to do so; the two immediately behind them looked like monks, wearing the same simple worn russet robes as the man who had stood outside his cell; and behind them walked a heavy-set man. He was dressed head to foot in formal ceremonial robes, ornately decorated with archaic symbols of worship and power. The deep red of the robes he wore marked him out as a powerful man.
Why was he coming to him? For that old monk he had murdered years before?
The two guards moved to either side of the door and the
monks quickly took up their position beside them. The crimson-robed man stepped towards his cell. When he was a single pace from the bars, he stopped. ‘Rise, my son,’ said a deep, resonant voice, belying the holy man’s corpulent appearance. Helpless to resist, Kerk stood. The guards opened the door to his cell at a gesture from the priest. Without explanation or question, the priest continued ‘Do you accept Wist and all of his teaching?’
He nodded.
‘Then kneel my son and swear fealty to Wist’s teachings.’ The priest held out a book towards him.
Without a pause, he dropped back to his knees, the human filth coating his legs. Grasping “The Teachings of Wist” in his right hand, he swore the Priest’s oath. That was the beginning of the second part of his life.
A presence beside him roused Kerk from his memories and he opened his eyes to find a man standing before him again, shrouded in darkness. He managed to keep a grip on his temper this time. ‘You,’ he growled. ‘Out of my way, I have God’s work to do.’
The pale-skinned man flicked a hand at him. ‘I am here to assist you in your task. Indeed, I have observed your progress on occasion; provided a helping hand where necessary.’ The rumbling growl in Kerk’s throat continued. This fiend had rendered him immobile once more. The anger mounted in him again. This time he used it to suppress the memories of those first terrible days, locked helpless in the cell. ‘You know that this is not the quarry you seek.’ Tilden’s voice sounded thin, almost insubstantial. Without waiting for a reply, he continued, ‘The one you seek lies many miles to the north. Without aid, you will die in the desert before you reach him. Already he approaches the base of his power out in the mountains. Even if you could manage the journey, the force that awaits you now would overwhelm a single man without a struggle. Even one as mighty as you.’
The words sent waves of confusion through Kerk. ‘Let me go,’ he spat, trying to focus his anger again. ‘I will slaughter these two at least.’
‘Do you consider those two pitiful wretches,’ Tilden gestured to the camp fire below, ‘are suitable recompense for the utter desolation of God’s holy city? His temples have been defiled. Your sanctum is no more.’
Once more waves of disorientation washed over Kerk, denying him the focus he needed.
Tilden voice shifted cadence as he spoke. With deepening intensity and rising ire, he continued, ‘Is a single defiler and his whore all the recompense you can provide to your Lord? The man is but a single pawn and his wench less still. Do not waste the chance to punish the guilty on a tool. You have been chosen to deliver God’s vengeance.’
‘I do not trust a word that comes from your treacherous lips,’ Kerk said. ‘Conti told me you called yourself Tilden. Tilden: King of liars, son of the Devil himself. Throughout the ages he has poisoned mankind with his sweet words and bitter venom.’
‘You believe that old liar Conti?’ said Tilden with a mirthless laugh. ‘He pulled your strings for so many years and still you cling to the old fool’s words. He is dead, you know?’ He remained silent as Tilden spoke. ‘All of his games and subtle power plays came to naught.’
Tilden sighed and looked directly into Kerk’s eyes. ‘If you follow my advice, I can help you deliver the guilty for punishment before your Lord. If not, then you shall perish out here, just another corpse for the carrion eaters to devour.’
Kerk was caught again… Whoever this man was, or claimed to be, part of what he said was true; killing these two would simply help assuage his anger, it would not deliver true vengeance.
After several moments, he asked, ‘What would you propose?’
‘Go to the Dammed,’ Tilden said, without a sliver of humour. ‘I will arrange for aid.’
11 - Heart of Darkness
True to his word, Faric ensured they had left the relative safety of the copse behind before the sun crested the horizon. The arrival of the new day had brought a new determination to Wist. He would no longer be the passive victim. Once they reached Eliscius, he’d be able to rest and sort out the maelstrom of confusion that his life had become. How he yearned to see that familiar face, despite his trepidation at what he’d hear. Would Eliscius appear unchanged to him? How could he even still be alive? None of this maddening situation could be reconciled in his mind; the harder he pushed, the more incompatible the pieces became.
Faric set a blistering pace through the mounting heat of the morning and Wist’s eyes soon wearied from squinting through the arid air and constant, penetrating light. As they moved directly for the mountain range at the horizon, it became obvious that they would be travelling for several days before they reached the foothills at the approach. The prospect of even one more days under this merciless sun filled him with dread, but his new resolve and purpose pushed him to match the Lyrat’s drive without complaint.
The urgency of their flight left no room for conversation - Faric communicated his desired course either through a series of simple hand gestures or by forcing Wist to follow his path. The Lyrat showed no signs of the previous day’s exertions. As the sun approached its highest point in the sky, Faric brought them to a halt at a small group of sequoia trees. Set in the lee of a small mound, the trees provided adequate shade and cover from observing eyes. After tethering and tending to the horses, they sat down at the foot of the trees and consumed a little of their dried rations.
‘How long do you think it will be before we reach the mountains?’ Wist asked, between mouthfuls.
‘If we keep our current pace, we will gain the approach in three days. Can you sustain this for that long?’ Wist was sure that Faric’s eyes sparkled with challenge.
‘I’ll manage,’ Wist said, not wanting to show any weakness to this toughened warrior. But his new-found determination quailed at the thought of three full days in this punishing heat.
‘Good,’ said Faric, a faint smile playing on his lips.
‘Once we get to the mountains - I know we are going to Eliscius but - how’ll you find him? Do you know where to go?’ he asked.
The humour that had been on Faric’s face evaporated. ‘I will take us to the mountains. Once we are there, we must let him find us.’
‘And what about Aviti and Tyla?’ Wist asked. ‘If you don’t know where we are going, how’ll Tyla find him?’
‘We can sense one another,’ answered Faric. ‘Once we are close enough, Tyla will locate us.’
‘Can you – sense them now?’ Wist enquired; he’d forgotten the Lyrat’s bond. ‘Are they OK?’
Faric regarded him for a moment before answering, as if to assess what was required from him. ‘They are hale, I can sense no panic or threat – only urgency and purpose can I perceive.’
Wist sighed. It was more than he could have hoped for, but less than he’d like to have heard. ‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘for everything. I don’t think I’ve properly thanked you, or anyone else, for everything that they’ve done for me.’
The Lyrat lifted a dark eyebrow in response but the shadow passed quickly from his well-defined features. ‘I only hope that I have chosen correctly. But that is in the past, the choice has been made and we have travelled too far down our path for regrets.’ Despite the Lyrat’s reassurances, Wist struggled to maintain his resolve. Self-doubt and uncertainty dogged his every step, eager to sink their teeth into any gaps in his defences.
They ate the remainder of their food in silence, and then they rested in the shade of the trees while they waited for the extremes of the mid-day sun to pass. Faric appeared to doze as he waited, but Wist could find no sleep.
‘I still can’t understand why you’d choose to live out in the desert,’ Wist said. ‘I can barely imagine how difficult life must be for your people. How do you manage to get enough food to live on? Surely, you must strive for more from life than simply surviving. Don’t you want progress in your life? Don’t you want a better life for your children: one with more security – more – predictability?’
The smile returned to Faric’s lips as his eyes opened. ‘
Wist, many of your words are – unusual to me; I do not like the feel of them. You question my people’s way of life. This is the same question asked by many of the Settled - those that do not believe us to be dark marauding spectres.
‘The desert calls to me, it anchors my heart. It is not a sense of duty that keeps us or the Tribes here. It is the wonderment of the desert. There is a richness and variety of life here with which a steady supply of food and the comfort of a fixed shelter cannot hope to contend. Your eyes already have noticed some of the more obvious changes in the land as we passed into this part of the desert.’ Wist nodded. ‘And this “security” you speak of - it has the sound of shackles and fear.
‘No, I would not trade my life for a life of peace and submission: even now. There are no Damned within my people; they simply follow the path of their life and then expire.’ There was no bitterness or animosity in Faric’s words, only simple love and devotion to a land that had provided a vast array of riches to his life. The passion in his reply humbled Wist.
‘I don’t ever remember feeling that way about anything,’ Wist said, mostly to himself.
Faric rose from his prone position and gestured to Wist to make his preparations to leave. As he gathered the travelling packs and mounted his horse, Wist mulled over the short but impassioned speech the Lyrat had made. He had never considered that a place could engender such feelings. Especially one that, superficially at least, appeared so vehemently hostile to life. Christ, he had assumed it’d been devoid of life before they had started out.
The Redemption of Wist Boxed Set: Books 1 - 3: The complete collection Page 13
