"But, Comrade Master," piped up Comrade Sturling, a greying bear of a knight, heavy in fist and thought, "surely we are in agreement with him? You have been calling for a new Reconquest for years."
Sibrand turned on him savagely. "I never mean it, you idiot," he rasped. "It was just something I said to keep up appearances and gain the Temple an advantage. The old king used to bribe me with cash and jewels to shut up about it. No Grand Master in his right mind would welcome the summoning of a genuine Reconquest, the risk and cost would be insane."
A lean piece of scarred gristle named Comrade Brandiles spoke up. "The Temple was founded during the Second Reconquest," he said, "for a long time, reclaiming the Old Kingdom was the only reason we existed. I often ask myself, what is our purpose now? We have done little for fifty years, save fight off pirate raids on our coasts and intervene in petty disputes between the Houses. Work for watchmen, not knights of the Temple."
There was a general murmur of agreement, with the exception of Comrade Malet, who sat with his arms folded, impassive as ever. The Grand Master lost what little patience he had and hurled one of his gloves at the wall.
"Do you seek to educate me?" he shouted. "Fifty years! Fifty years since the last Reconquest, do you think I don't know that? I was there, in case you had forgotten!"
He paused for a moment as the memories hit him like a sockful of sand. The Grand Master looked back across the long years, to when he was a young knight full of hope and thirsting for glory.
The Templars had collected a fleet of sixty cogs and galleys, crammed to the gunwales with knights and men-at-arms, and sailed with the aim of striking at the pirates that had infested the Western Isles of the Old Kingdom. Under their mysterious chief, known only as the Raven Queen, the pirates had re-occupied the old ports and made the Isles their base from which they launched raids on peaceful shipping.
The Grand Master, then plain Comrade Sibrand, had been stationed aboard one of the cogs. He remembered the lurch of the deck under his feet, the heaving grey waves and the cold empty feeling in his stomach as he leaned over the side and retched up his breakfast. Sibrand was halfway through yet another vomit when the flares went up. The pirate fleet had been sighted.
A dozen ships, the lookouts cried. Then a score, a hundred, many hundreds: too many to count. They came from all sides, sleek black vessels with red sails, knifing through the water like sharks. No one had imagined that the Raven Queen could muster so many. The Templar fleet was surrounded and their lumbering cogs and galleys had no hope of outrunning the swift pirate vessels.
The Grand Master snapped out of his reverie. "Do you have any idea how many people we lost that day?" he demanded, glaring around the room. "Comrades, study your histories. My ship was fired, but by the grace of the gods I managed to escape in a boat. Out of a thousand knights, less than a hundred survived."
Silence, as the Grand Master returned to his seat and passed a trembling hand over his eyes. His strength was failing him, but his temper seemed to be getting worse. Rage would kill him one day, he was sure of it.
"After that catastrophe, there was talk of the Temple being dissolved," he continued, "I have dedicated my life to restoring our shattered reputation. It has taken me years. Years of toil and politics and greasing up to people I despise. I will not see my life's work thrown away like this."
Comrade Toeni dared to speak. She was one of the few female Templars, lean and poker-faced, her iron-grey hair cropped as ruthlessly short as her male colleagues.
"Comrade Master, we have all read the histories, and we are all aware that the Eleventh Reconquest was a failure. But that does not mean the Twelfth will go the same way. With better planning and organization, who knows what could be achieved?"
"Archpriest Flambard promised us the full financial backing of the State," put in Sturling. "Not even he would dare to renege on it."
Brandiles thumped his lean thigh. "Think on it, Comrades!" he enthused. "We could afford to mobilize the full strength of the Temple, hire mercenaries and men-at-arms, fit out a fleet of warships!"
"I cannot believe what I am hearing," snarled the Grand Master. "Are you all really that stupid? Can't you see that Flambard wishes to get rid of us? He has used us to slaughter his enemies, and now we are his only remaining obstacle to ruling unchecked until the Queen comes of age. Of course he's offered to shower us with money. He'll do anything to get us out of the realm."
"Why should we care if he wants to rule?" asked Comrade Toeni. "We are dedicated to the sword, not politics."
The Grand Master hesitated before replying. He was aware that the Lesser Masters, along with most of the other Templars, had little to no interest in politics and were content to follow their warrior religion to the exclusion of all else. He was different. Long years of politicking had given him a taste for power, and he saw no reason why he should not rule as regent instead of Archpriest Flambard. But this was an ambition he dared not express.
"My task," he said, choosing his words carefully, "is to ensure the survival and prosperity of the Temple. Another pointless sortie into the Old Kingdom could lead to our destruction. The Reconquered Realms are lost. There is nothing for us over the sea except windswept ruins and blood-drinking savages."
Comrade Malet lifted his head. "We cannot refuse," he said in his deep, precise tones. "Archpriest Flambard declared the Twelfth Reconquest in public. We must heed his summons or suffer a fatal loss of prestige. The Temple has always led in war."
The Grand Master gave him a nasty look. Malet was normally his ally and he had expected more support from that quarter. "Thank you for your contribution," he replied with heavy sarcasm.
"I speak only the truth, Comrade Master. We cannot get out of this, wriggle as we might. Therefore we must make the best of it."
"Is that so? I am all ears, Comrade. Please, enlighten us."
The big knight unfolded his arms and stood up. Next to the other Masters, withered and greying as they were, he looked like a giant. The Grand Master felt a tremor of fear as Malet turned to face him.
This one will be my successor, he thought. He has the strength, the will and the intelligence. But not yet, Comrade, not yet: you must rein in your ambition for a while.
"It is quite simple," said Comrade Malet. "If we cannot avoid taking part in the Twelfth Reconquest, then we must make a success of it. That would be the last thing the Archpriest expects."
"Perfectly simple," sneered the Grand Master. "We'll simply hop into a boat and re-conquer the entire Old Kingdom, shall we? Nothing could be easier."
"With respect, Comrade Master, I did not say that." Malet paced into the middle of the room. "Previous Reconquests have failed because they were too ambitious. Anyone of sense must acknowledge that the Old Kingdom is lost and cannot be restored. But if we concentrate all our power on one specific target, then there may be some chance of success."
Comrade Toeni nodded. "The lost continent is covered with the ruins of old Templar shrines and fortresses. We could make it our mission to recapture one of them."
Comrades Brandiles and Sturling also voiced their hearty approval, forcing the Grand Master to move fast. "But why?" he protested. "What would be the point of marching into the wilderness, fighting off hordes of Godless Ones and other vile foes on the way, just to recapture some mouldering old building?
"I have somewhere specific in mind, Comrade Master," said Comrade Malet. "I propose that we march to liberate Temple Rock."
This was met by shouts of approval and applause from the Lesser Masters, and a groan of dismay from the Grand Master.
"Temple Rock is on the other side of the world!" he cried. "No Templar has been that far south for three hundred years."
"Then we could make history," said Comrade Sturling in a breathless voice, his tired old eyes shining with warlike zeal. The Grand Master noted his enthusiasm, and that of the other Lesser Masters, and knew he was beaten.
"Very well," he said, eyeing his former ally Comrade Malet wi
th pure loathing, "it seems I am outvoted."
10.
Salla applied yet more brightly coloured paint to Naiyar's body—blue this time, to signify the sky to which his soul would soon ascend.
Naiyar's mind was full of questions. The voices had said he was not a god, but neither was he a man. What was he then, if not a man? How did they know he would be chosen? Why had he been chosen, if he was not a god? Whose voices had he heard? Why had they chosen to speak to him and no one else? Had he been chosen at all or had something else happened at the temple, something much more momentous?
He realised how little he knew about himself and about the world.
Lokee, watching on, asked, "How do you feel?"
Naiyar considered his father's question. "Different."
"See?" Lokee smiled. "What did I tell you?"
He did feel different, but not in the way Lokee thought. He felt like his eyes had been opened. He couldn't stop thinking about the view of the horizon from the temple, how it had made him feel, the words the voices had whispered…
His tribe were about to set him loose and hunt him. He would have to flee, to give them a good chase to amuse the gods, but ultimately they expected to catch and kill him. There was no real hope of escape—no Chosen Son ever escaped, they said. And if, gods forbid, a Chosen Son did escape, it would spell disaster for the tribe, because the gods would no longer consider them worthy. Without the gods, the tribe was doomed.
In spite of all this, Naiyar did not feel his life was ending…he felt it was just beginning. Life began when he stood on the temple platform and laid eyes on the horizon.
Not a god. Not a man.
What was he, then?
* * * *
Dusk settled on the jungle. Time for Naiyar to be taken to the edge of the village and set loose. At dark, the warriors would come with their dogs to find him.
Salla hung a string of beads about his neck, then kissed him on the forehead and looked into his eyes. She seemed unable to speak, paralysed by grief and speechless with joy. Naiyar knew she firmly believed he would be a god now, to watch over her and Evva, his little sister.
Evva watched him too. "I'm going to look for you in the sky every night. Will you look for me, Naiyar?"
She had always been a ray of sunshine in the gloomy shade of his life. A bright, witty girl, half his age, full of questions and always smiling.
"Of course," he said. Her face lit with a smile that broke his heart. "I will watch over you every night, I promise."
"I knew you would!" she squealed, flinging her arms around his waist.
He felt guilty that he had never shown her the love she had selflessly shown him.
"Come, Naiyar," whispered Lokee, putting his hand on his shoulder. "It is time."
Naiyar turned from his mother and sister, and Lokee lead him away to the appointed place.
* * * *
Kelta's most notable feature was his great belly—a chief's belly, some called it—which hung down to his thighs and protruded far beyond his chest. He did not speak much, but he did listen and he even laughed occasionally, a slow, guttural laugh, usually when no one else found anything funny. Lokee told tales of Kelta's prowess as a hunter and a warrior, which Naiyar—walking alongside the chief's elaborate litter—found difficult to believe, since the chief atop his litter looked like nothing so much as a huge rotting fruit.
"You have been chosen, young man, not by the shamans, but by the gods themselves. The shamans have the power to see things we cannot." Kelta shifted slightly, propping his head up so he could look at his guests, and then held out his mug so a servant could top it off. "But do not be afraid, Naiyar, for tonight, we send you home!"
The walk was tiresome and the going slow, but they finally came to a small clearing next to a deep ravine. A rope bridge spanned the distance and disappeared into the dense jungle on the other side. The river shimmered far below. The first few stars were beginning to twinkle in the deepening sky above.
Lokee came to Naiyar's side and held up a wooden bowl containing a strong smelling powder and a carved wooden tube.
"You must snort this powder, mixed by the shaman," said Lokee. "It will link you with the spirit world. When the time comes and you leave the physical world, this will ease your passage."
Naiyar sniffed the bowl and wrinkled his nose up.
"It stinks," he said.
"Nevertheless..."
Naiyar took the tube and put the two ends in his nostrils. He leaned forward and sniffed hard. His nose burned, his eyes watered and he sneezed.
He wiped his eyes and looked up at Lokee in dismay.
"And the rest," said Lokee with a smug grin.
Reluctantly, Naiyar snorted the rest of the powder and Lokee stepped back from the edge to stand behind Kelta, with the rest of the elders.
Kelta began to sing, in a surprisingly smooth, high-pitched voice, a song about the gods.
"At the birth of time a gift was made,
The gift of life to spring from mud.
To please the gods, that we never fade,
We offer up the living blood.
From beyond the circle of sun and moon
Is born the child of stars divine:
The Chosen Son we cut him loose
To take his place in the darkened sky."
Kelta's voice trailed off and Naiyar could see tears in his eyes.
Kelta raised one chubby arm and pointed to the bridge. "Now run, Naiyar! Give the hunters a good chase and entertain the gods so that they will accept you willingly and bring your people good fortune."
Without a backward glance, Naiyar padded nimbly across the swaying bridge and disappeared into the jungle.
* * * *
Naiyar ran through the undergrowth, heedless of the nicks and scratches. He knew it wouldn't be long before the hunters came after him.
He didn't know if the Chosen Sons of the past had truly believed they were to become gods, or if they merely fled in terror until the hunters caught up with them and put them out of their misery.
He slowed down and sat on a tree root to catch his breath. The night time cacophony of frogs and insects was just beginning and, all around him, he could hear the deafening rasps, screams, and whistles of tiny creatures. He marvelled at how so many creatures, making so much noise, could remain completely hidden. He wished he had the same talent.
Naiyar, keep moving. They come with dogs.
The voices seemed louder now he was alone, and he was relieved to hear them.
Then he heard the war-horn of the Djanki, a deep, melancholic note that rang through the forest and seemed to seek him out. He felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck and a cold sweat break out all over his body. The horn was meant to strike fear into the hearts of the Djanki's enemies. It was very effective. They didn't normally use it when hunting, since it was pointless frightening away every animal within a half-day's march. He guessed they were using it now as part of the show they were putting on for the gods.
He could hear the distant baying of dogs, still far behind him but close enough to make him pick up the pace again.
Again he ran through the dense undergrowth, shielding his face from whipping branches and vines, stumbling over tree roots and the uneven ground but somehow keeping his footing.
Run, Naiyar, run! They're gaining on you.
He knew it would not be long before they caught up with him, but he could not run much further without a rest. His chest burned and his legs ached.
Not much further, Naiyar. Keep running. Not far now.
Not far until what?
Freedom! Go left, keep running! You must keep running!
Suddenly he saw a pale figure in front of him. A young man, roughly his age, judging by his build, lithely and effortlessly skipping through gaps in the undergrowth and bounding over roots and fallen branches.
Follow! I will lead you.
The figure did not look back, but Naiyar had heard his voice as clear as day. He th
ought the powder Lokee had given him must be kicking in.
"Not now," he thought. "Please."
The last thing he wanted was to start gibbering and writhing like the shamans.
But his vision was lucid and, if anything, he felt he had more energy and awareness. The pain in his legs and chest eased and he found himself bounding after the ghostly figure with a renewed vigour.
Keep up with me, Naiyar, I will lead you to freedom.
The sounds of the warriors and their dogs did not seem to be fading, but nor were they gaining on him. Naiyar suddenly realised he was enjoying the thrill of the chase. He felt elated as he ran effortlessly after the mysterious apparition.
Then a space opened out before him and the ground disappeared from beneath his feet. It took him a moment to work out what was happening. The spectral image of the boy in front of him had vanished and he was falling.
The rushing of the water below him grew louder until he could hear nothing else. Then the wind was knocked out of him and all was dark.
Freedom.
PART II: INTO OUTER DARKNESS
1.
The Lords of Hell had tried every trick they knew, fled from one Circle of their infernal domain to another, and yet they could not shake off that which hunted them. Behind them their palaces were destroyed, their demonic servants consumed or cast shrieking into space, and the hosts of tormented human souls released to find some other afterlife.
At last, after fleeing across the environs of time and space, the Lords ended up where they had begun. Forced to hide like frightened rats inside the depths of the ancient caves where their dark forms had first taken shape.
Men believe, wrongly, that they were created by the gods. In fact it is the other way round. Their primitive ancestors, attempting to make sense of a hostile and terrifying world, invented gods and demons as a way of explaining the vagaries of nature. Lacking any obvious answers or the means to discover them, humans resorted to filling the void of ignorance with supernatural entities born of their own imagination.
If the High Gods were born of mankind's nobler instincts, then the Lords of Hell were products of his fear. Early man had a lot to fear. Lurking shadows in the caves, sudden teeth in the dark, the ravages of disease and bad weather: all these combined gave shape and substance to the Lords of Hell.
The Best Weapon Page 6
