by Jon Kiln
Talon thought that the sight of so many spears on such a high wall must surely make even the battle-hardened Menaali think twice about attacking, but apparently not. In the streets behind the walls, the crowds and the markets had been cleared, and all that sat there now were wagons ready to carry the wounded to the nearest field hospitals or piles of spare armaments, arrows, water, and swords. To Talon, it almost looked as though the city had given up its rich trade in river and sea food, and instead had become a place that only bought and sold war.
The silence was also an unexpectedly eerie change in the city for the youth. Talon was just about getting used to the constant level of noise, shouts, singing, screams, and laughter of a busy trading city when now, within the space of a few short hours, it had become a ghost town. The citizens had either donned what useless relics and heritage armor that they might have and joined the wall guards there, or they had barricaded themselves in their houses to await whatever end may come.
It was as if the whole city was holding its breath, waiting for the storm to strike.
The storm which, Talon saw, was heading straight for them. The siege towers were clearly visible now—six or seven stories high of wooden poles lashed together with vines and rope. They must have cut down every oasis between here and Tir, thought Talon in awe at the project, as well as at the number that they faced. The towers were only six, but they still drew the eye the way that a dangerous animal or a naked blade might do. They were hauled and pushed at their base on platforms attached to cart wheels the size of a man, and rumbled forward slowly but steadily on the flat ground.
The Menaali themselves rode and walked or loped in groups of about twenty to fifty. Talon was able to pick out the blobs of people and even the glint of the harsh sun on their cruel-looking weapons and bits of armor. They looked disorganized and chaotic, a swarm rather than an army, and somehow that made everything so much more terrifying for the boy. It felt to him as though they might be about to fight not men and women, but a swarm or a plague or an act of nature itself; a terrible, unstoppable storm.
Somewhere in the distance, out over the rising voices and the winds, there came a steady drum beat, and the sound grew stronger and louder with every passing second.
“War drums,” Suriyen said, dismissing the herald to his orders as she signaled their own buglers to sound the ready. “Don’t worry, soldiers of Fuldoon!” Suriyen shouted to all those near that could hear her, as other section commanders and captains would be doing the same on their own part of the wall. “They’re just trying to rattle us, but we’re not rattled, are we, lads? They’ll need more than a few hundred drums to put a stop to us!” And she laughed heartily.
As if in answer, somewhere over the distance was a sound like a sudden intake of air by a giant, and then a high, long, whining noise. Talon searched for the source of the sound to see a dark shape hurtling through the sky, fired by the Menaali. It looked from this distance no bigger than Talon’s hand, but as it rocketed through the air, he noticed how big it was in comparison to its surroundings. The siege tower had a trebuchet concealed within, and they were loaded with rocks the size of some of the houses in the city.
Talon watched the chunk of desert rock spin fast through the air, starting to grow larger, and larger, as it hurtled towards the walls. He was sure it was going to hit the wall and take out a whole five or ten Fuldoonian guards in one fell swoop.
Instead, a plume of white spray erupted from the wide river, reaching as high as the city walls themselves, before collapsing back in on itself as the projectile landed safely in Fuldoon’s boundary river.
A sudden defiant roar erupted from all of the defenders of the wall, and the people hammered on their shields and stamped their feet at the fact that the Menaali had missed, and had only managed to hit a river.
Wall-sergeant Suriyen let the men have their fun in the face of the enemy, but Talon could see in her eyes how worried she was. And for good reason, as far as Talon could see. The tower that had launched that first attack hadn’t paused, even though it had rocked and bounced back and forth on its wheels under the explosive release of the trebuchet–siege tower. They might have missed the first shot, but the Tower is closer now, and they won’t miss the next one. Talon’s fingers worried nervously with the buckled straps of his helmet again, as the forces of Dal Grehb marched ever closer.
24
“We’re going where, cap’n?” asked Kraggers, the boatswain of Captain Jons’ Emerald.
As far as Vekal could work out in his couple of days on board, as boatswain, Kraggers was in charge of equipment, supplies, and general boat safety. In practice, it looked as though the crew would generally go to Kraggers with any issues or problems that they might have encountered rather than bother the captain, who was generally too busy steering the boat or drinking, or occasionally both at the same time.
“The Shattering Coasts, East of Fuldoon, you numbskull!” Jons laughed, sitting at his small mahogany desk that looked small compared to his large frame. The room was bedecked in what Vekal would have called attempts at civility; curtains over grubby windows, fine furniture that the large-framed captain refused to sit on lest they get damaged, and trinkets and baubles hanging from the ceiling as ‘trophies’. None of them matched the burly manner and presence of Captain Jons.
“I know where it is, cap’n.” Kraggers rolled his eyes, and picked at his teeth with a small shard of chicken bone. He was, to Vekal’s eyes, somewhat similar to the Masters of the Order of Sin Eaters, in that he was thin and had that studious, rangy look about him. Quick eyes darted over the room, with a mean glint to his eyes that showed that he wouldn’t take any rebellion or back-chat from anyone.
Probably why he got the job, Vekal thought, seeing at how behind closed doors in the captain’s own room, Kraggers was far blunter to the captain than he had ever shown to be out there on deck in front of the crew. A crew which, as far as Vekal had seen, were not made up of merchant seamen. They were an even mix of men and women, but all had that hardened, salted edge to them that said that they would be ready for a fight at the clang of a knife, and the scars to prove it. Several had injuries so severe as to be disabilities back on dry land; one eye, a lost hand, foot, or in one case an entire arm. Not that any of these injuries stopped these sailors performing their jobs with much more vigor that Vekal ever could have.
No, if Vekal wasn’t very much mistaken, he wasn’t amongst a crew of pure merchant sailors, eager to waddle their way north and south across the Inner Sea, avoiding any conflict. He was on board a boat that had seen a whole lot of fighting, and perhaps even relished it.
“And I know the reputation that the Shattering Coasts have got, too.” Kraggers picked out a bit of his last meal from between his teeth, and threw the chicken bone toothpick out of one of the open windows. “The cliffs are hard black slate, not the crumbly stuff up north. They’ve sheared off the land for years, forming reefs and traps almost designed to scupper a boat like ours.” He gave the captain a hard stare. “And this is all for what? Him?” He didn’t look directly at Vekal, and the Sin Eater felt a flash of annoyance.
“Hush, my little priest. Still your anger,” Ikrit the devil said inside of him.
I never thought I would hear the day you would counsel peace, imp, Vekal replied silently.
The devil lodged inside the Sin Eater’s soul chuckled. “Not peace. Years of experience. This one is scared of you, of what you are. Maybe a life sniffing out storms gives him the sense that there is one hiding within you: me! Let him be scared. We can use that later,” the devil purred.
Vekal didn’t want to ‘use’ any weakness or advantage later. He just wanted to get to this shrine, and have the devil gone from him. Or do I want to step through with the Lockless Keys myself? End this brief existence and walk with the gods in paradise? he thought, a little shamefully. As one of the Undying, he had been raised to think that he was but a passing spirit, a guest here in the world. It was what allowed him to do what he
had to do here, to make the sorts of life and death decisions that only he, a Sin Eater by will of the gods, could do.
But still… the man thought a little uneasily. Shouldn’t I also cherish life? Isn’t that what I am here for too?
“Yes, for him. He’s one of the chosen of the gods,” the Captain spat back, breaking Vekal’s chain of complicated thought. “And given that the entirety of the south looks to fall under that brute Dal Grehb’s war axe, I think we would do well to get on the gods’ good side.”
“We’ve never had need of a priest before now…” Kraggers pointed out. “And we have paying passengers to get to the north.” It was true, of course. Half a dozen people, mixed into family groups, couples, and pale-faced singles who huddled below decks and wished that they never had to flee their besieged city home.
“Are you questioning my orders, boatswain?” the captain said finally, an edge of menace to his voice that reminded Kraggers of their relative positions on board the boat.
“No, sir. As you wish, cap’n.” Kraggers straightened immediately, turning on his heel to march sharply out of the room. As he did so, Vekal couldn’t help but see the glint of malice in his eye. Kraggers was loyal to his captain, and to his crew, but that didn’t mean that he would have to like what his orders were.
And just how far will a sailor be pushed before he pushes back? Vekal wondered, feeling a sort of sick fascination coming from him as Kraggers shut the door a little too firmly. He wondered if the devil inside of him was relishing this discord and tension that it had managed to sow without so much as a word or a deed.
“Don’t mind Kraggers, he’ll come around when the crew realize that it’s for a good cause.” Jons laughed, immediately back to his cheery self.
“Captain, I am surprised that it is, uh, that a sailor would regard what I do as a good cause.” Vekal chose the words carefully.
“Ha, are you? I’m not!” Jons slapped his hand on the desk. “All sailors live about a man’s length away from death every day of their lives, and none of them want to be on the wrong side of that line when it comes to it. When they hear that you are doing the work of the gods, they’ll be lining up to tell you their sins.”
“Really?” The devil inside pricked up its ears. Vekal wondered if this was almost a sort of entertainment sport for the fiend, hearing the sins of another soul.
“As they require, captain,” Vekal murmured, and then, almost forgetting the official words, “I am a tool of the gods alone, let them direct me as they wish.”
Jons laughed again, uncorking a bottle of something golden that smelled sharp and strong, before glugging it. “Now, you can begin your duties on board my ship with me. Tell the gods for me that I am a good man, and that I am doing the best that I can down here in a bad old world.”
Vekal almost spluttered. “You want me to hear your sins, captain?” He immediately felt naked, unprepared for such an eventuality. Maybe, the Sin Eater thought, it was because he was on board a boat and not surrounded by the timeless, ancient dust of his home desert. This was a strange environment, and it did not feel holy or sacred. Would the gods even hear his prayers?
“Of course!” The captain looked amused. “What good are you here if you won’t absolve me of my sins? I might as well have saved your space on board my ship for more brandy!”
“As you wish, captain.” Vekal nodded, trying to remember the creed of the Sin Eaters, to summon back the words that had once so easily fallen from his lips, before. He felt vaguely heretical, or shameful, as he stepped in front of the captain, and took a deep breath, before bowing his head.
“What happens now? Is that it?” Captain Jons smirked, taking another slug of his brandy. “I don’t feel blessed, priest.” He glowered.
“And it’s going to take a lot to clean a soul like yours, I bet!” Ikrit sneered inside of Vekal, in what was almost admiration.
“Silence,” Vekal scowled, before quickly seeing that he had said that out loud. His hands felt suddenly clammy with sweat, and a cold shiver went down his neck. Could he do it? The alien motion of the deck below was making his stomach churn, and he hoped that he was not going to be sick again. “Uh, I mean, I need silence to begin. I will say the necessary prayers, and then you may confess your soul to the gods, through me.”
“Hmph?” The captain looked calculating, as if measuring up whether this experience really was worth all of the money that he had lost in not extorting another refugee from Fuldoon.
Vekal closed his eyes and breathed, allowing his mind to settle and grow quiet, like the silence-filled halls of the Tower of Records. Empty of noise and distraction.
“Really? Can’t you moan or hum a bit for him, at least? Put on a bit of a show, will you, Vekal?”
Silence, devil! Vekal twitched, frowning as his shoulders shook in concentration. To the seated captain it looked as though the Sin Eater really was mentally wrestling with the gods. The Sin Eater waited for that sense of space and quiet to return, and then felt his mind start to feel clear and bright, as he focused on the words that would act like a mantra, unlocking that part within which had been trained into him:
“You are the dead. The Unliving. You do not belong to the world but to those that live beyond it. You are made of this world but are not owned by it.
“I will cast no shadow, for the dead have nothing to hide. My feet will leave no tracks in the sand, for there is no way back. Death shall come for me and I will welcome it, because I know its halls.
“Only the dead can grant life, for the living can only give themselves away.”
Vekal said the words, and found that he felt as he always had, and that his training remained within him despite what terrible deeds he had done and seen in the last few weeks. He even felt a little different, as if his mind felt clearer somehow, as hard as diamond. A part of him, the part that was always watching and never feeling, wondered if the melding of the imp’s energies with his own would make his prayers and intercessions that much more powerful.
“Speak, Captain Jons of the Emerald. Tell the Lord Annwn what you wish him to record…” Vekal’s voice was thick and heavy, and his eyes open once more but unseeing as his hands raised of their own accord to hover around the temples of the astonished captain’s head.
“Uh, well… I am asking for safe passage, and for success for my ship,” Captain Jons said a little embarrassed.
“No, mortal!” Vekal’s voice sprang out, but the Sin Eater wasn’t sure if it really was his voice, or something else, channeling through him. “The gods do not care what you desire, they care about what you fear. Speak!”
“Well, uh…” Captain Jons gasped. “I—I am scared that I will fail. That I will lose this ship and all of its crew. That they will realize that I am a bad captain…”
The silent, watchful part of Vekal that was always there knew that it wasn’t his place to offer advice, or to analyze, just listen, and so the Sin Eater nodded, silently, as the captain poured out his heart and soul to what he thought were the gods.
“I, uh, you see, I have sinned. I tell the crew that we only made seven hundred guillions last quarter, when actually we made closer to a thousand,” the captain whispered, taking another slug of brandy for a little addition of liquid courage. “That way they get a smaller cut, and I get more to pay off the gangs that keep the trade routes open. I borrowed a lot from them, and then lost a lot more in gambling, and now I have to get the money from somewhere…”
Vekal had heard petty little evils like this a hundred times over. In the end, it was always the same. Every man and woman felt inadequate before the gods, and felt like they had no choice but to do small, terrible things in order to keep their heads above water. Husbands lied to their wives, and soldiers skimped on their duties. The stories were all unique, but there was a similarity through all of them that allowed Vekal to not react, and nod that he had heard.
“And I think Kraggers knows,” the captain whispered, almost seemingly entranced by the strange situatio
n. “I am scared that he will mutiny, and worse than that, that I will lose his friendship. He has been my only friend, and I do not wish to have to do to him what I did to poor Mullig, the previous boatswain.”
There, the Sin Eater part of Vekal thought. The sin around which his life rotates. There is always at least one, hiding under the rest.
“What did you do to Mullig, the late boatswain of the Emerald?” Vekal heard his strangely thick and croaky voice repeat.
“Mullig… Mullig knew. He knew about my gambling, and he was my friend on board too. Mullig knew everything about me because, you see, Mullig was my only brother. Mullig was my family, and, when I betrayed him, may the gods help me, I felt powerful, unstoppable even, while doing it,” the captain whispered in a convulsion of guilt.
“Confess your sins, Captain Jons of the Emerald,” the Sin Eater intoned.
“I killed my own brother,” Jons confessed, “just to save my own skin.”
Vekal felt a surge of tingling up and down his arms, the animal apprehension before it is struck. But it wasn’t a physical blow that felled the Sin Eater, but a spiritual one as his mind opened like a complicated lock, and the dust and sand from many years ago came flying out as Vekal drowned in a storm of his own memories…
25
The sand whipped at their clothes once more, tearing them, flattening them first this way against their bodies, then the other way. It was impossible to open your eyes in this sort of sand storm, even young Vekal knew—but his mother did so, holding the veil to her face to protect her auburn and hazel eyes. Vekal felt her hand tighten against his as she gasped at the pain of the onslaught.
“Closer! Come on,” she shouted to the two small figures at her side, as she held little Vekal’s hand and he held the hand of his own brother, Elak.
