No Return

by Zachary Jernigan

  Berun’s hand came into view at Vedas’s shoulder. In it was a folded piece of paper.

  ‡

  “Shit,” Vedas said. Shit: The first unintended word of his address, echoing off the distant stone walls of the coliseum.

  He unfolded the speech. The words swam on the paper for several seconds before organizing themselves in a recognizable fashion. He had written a full page in his small, tight handwriting. Four paragraphs, including an introduction wherein he thanked the city of Danoor and its representatives, everyone in the coliseum, the brothers and sisters of the Thirteenth, and Abse for sending him to the tournament.

  Suddenly, the words of gratitude seemed unnecessary, even ridiculous. He skipped them and began with the second paragraph. Afraid to miss or mangle a single word, he read slowly, methodically.

  “Respect for my abbey master notwithstanding, I cannot deliver the speech he instructed me to read. It encourages violence on a massive scale, violence that will result in the deaths of hundreds, if not thousands, of Adrashi and Anadrashi alike. It is the kind of message the Tomen are waiting for, but we cannot side with them any more than we can side with Nos Ulom or Stol. I do not wish to start a war, and yet I believe this is what I am being encouraged to do. I am no one’s puppet.”

  Vedas paused his monotone reading. The stands were quiet, waiting for him to continue. He skimmed more lines, more words that only repeated his point. Unneeded clarifications. Entreaties for reason, for compassion. He skipped the entire third paragraph.

  “Brothers and sisters, we are here tonight for the wrong reason. We are here because we have been told it is important to wage war upon those who disagree with us. We have been told that by winning the war Adrash is kept at bay, yet we have no proof of this. We gain the advantage over our enemies for a time and then lose it. The Adrashi do likewise. Despite the changes in fortune, Adrash still threatens us with destruction. Mankind is still held captive.”

  He lifted his hand, but stopped before rubbing his eyes. The smell of blood had alerted him. He became aware of a noise—the buzzing of a beehive, water cascading over rocks—and wondered if the sound arose within his own mind.

  “While children are trained to kill, trained to hate, the white god waits. He waits for proof that mankind is worthy of destruction. How, I ask you, is our war supposed to convince him? How is it supposed to hurt him? I look around and it is clear that we are only hurting ourselves.”

  Pausing, he squinted to make out the blurred lines.

  The Followers of Man need to stand...

  Join with our Adrashi cousins...

  He had written more—more entreaties and encouragements, words meant to ease the impact of his words. An open hand instead of a fist. Nonetheless, he let the speech fall between his fingers. He would not talk to his brothers and sisters as if they were children, or draw their conclusions for them.

  The words that came next had not been written. They had been carved into the soft tissue of his brain over the course of the last three months. They had lain in wait for this moment.

  “Our fellow man is not the enemy. Adrash is the enemy.”

  He looked up. What he had only half-heard before was the sound of one hundred and fifty thousand people in an uproar. The stands heaved like the surface of the ocean. Items arced through the air, littering the arena floor. An arrow fell just short of the platform. Magefire ignited from a thousand staffs, forming constellations in the tiers. As Vedas watched, a man fell from the lowest stand. Four stories. He did not get up. It would only be a matter of time before chaos reigned. Soon, more people would not fall from the stands. They would be pushed.

  Vedas turned to Berun. “I did this?” he whispered.

  “Not you alone,” the constructed man said. He did not look down. Instead, he pointed to the eastern wall of the coliseum.

  It took Vedas a moment to understand what he was seeing. When he did, panic gripped his throat with icy fingers.

  The first two spheres of the Needle had risen into view, but they were not at all where they ought to be. They lay side by side, nearly touching. As he watched, a third came above the coliseum wall—a much larger sphere than it should have been.

  Adrash had broken the Needle, and it would not take long for people to place blame.

  “Time to go,” Berun said.

  BERUN

  THE 1St OF THE MONTH OF ASECTICS, 12500 MD

  THE CITY OF DANOOR TO THE NEUAA SALT FLATS,

  THE REPUBLIC OF KNOS MIN

  A dog lay in the flood gutter outside the boarded-up inn, wheezing into a puddle of its own blood. Its left forelimb was a flattened mess, as though a huge-rimmed wheel had rolled over it. Its chest was caved in and four great claw wounds had spilled the steaming contents of its bowels onto the ground.

  The girl in white stooped to look at it. She reached into the animal’s chest, a frown of intense concentration on her unlined face.

  Sometimes they can be fixed, she said.

  The dog twitched. Its chest inflated, accompanied by a high-pitched whine. Broken ribs straightened under its short-haired skin and its intestines slithered back into its belly. Slowly, even its leg started to puff up from the ground. It howled, and then abruptly stopped breathing.

  The girl stood. Sometimes they can’t.

  She looked up at the small, two-story building, which had been barricaded from within, splintered wooden boards nailed across its two broken windows. Whoever was inside had undoubtedly blocked the front and back doors with furniture.

  She’s in there, the girl said.

  Berun saw no reason to doubt her. Not long ago, she had led him to the foot of the hills that rose from the salt flats northwest of the city. She told him of the monastery that lay nestled in the valley between them, where Vedas now lay in recovery. She touched his leg, infusing him with energy as though he had lain in the sun for hours. Then she had led him back through the chaotic streets of Danoor, always a move ahead of the roving bands of rioters and Tomen, to this small inn on a side street that looked like every other side street in the city.

  The owner tried to throw her out, she continued, but she paid him more money to stay. She couldn’t walk, and for a long time I couldn’t find her. She can keep me away if she really wants to, but I don’t think she really knows that. She just does it.

  He did not ask the girl for more —How do you know her? Why do you care?—for there could be no doubt any longer. She was Churls’s daughter. Unable to speculate upon how she existed and what her nature might be, he nonetheless saw the bloodline clearly. How had he not noticed it before? The bone structure, the eyes, the almost invisible smattering of freckles across her nose—they were her mother’s, almost exactly.

  Of course, Churls had never mentioned a child, but he had seen the woman naked on the morning of the cat attack. Though she moved to hide it while she bathed, he nonetheless saw the scar on her lower belly. Undoubtedly, she had reasons for not volunteering this information.

  And he would never ask. Nor would he ask her daughter to tell him the story.

  This did not mean he intended to say nothing. He had suppressed his displeasure during their headlong rush to the city, but now he gave it voice. “If you can give me energy and almost heal a dying dog,” he asked, “why didn’t you treat Vedas?”

  The girl appeared next to him. She took his hand, though he felt no pressure at her touch. I was scared. I don’t want him to know about me. Hurry!

  His craggy brows met over his nose. “He was asleep the entire time, girl. I only woke him before I left for the city.” His fingers curled into fists. “You had more than enough time.”

  She stamped her foot, but it made no sound. I was scared!

  “You’ll do it later, then? When you’ve got your courage back?”

  I’ll think about it. She disappeared, and reappeared a moment later. The man inside heard you talking. He’s waiting with a weapon behind the bar. A big gun with two barrels. There’s a table turned over in front of
the door, and a lot of chairs piled behind it.

  Berun’s anger did not fade. The girl spoke too flippantly about Vedas’s health for his comfort. He briefly considered threatening her, telling her he would not retrieve Churls unless she agreed to make Vedas well, but could not make himself do it. Most likely, Vedas would not die from his wounds. Churls very well might come to harm if she remained in the city any longer.

  He positioned himself before the door. “Where is she?” he asked. Upstairs, third door on the left. She’s asleep and probably won’t wake up soon. She’s recovering. The girl stared at her feet. She made some bad choices and nearly died, but I made her better—mostly better. That was before I helped you find the monastery. I hope she likes what I did. I want her to not be angry at me anymore.

  He could not say why, but these words stilled his remaining anger. He found himself fighting the urge to praise the girl for helping Churls. He wanted to make her smile. She reminded him so much of her mother, damaged in ways beyond his comprehension. Perhaps this was not unusual. Maybe all men were fractured in the same sense, and only he had been blind to it. Still, he thought not. He liked Churls, more than he had ever liked anyone. He liked Vedas. He shared their concerns, though by all rights he should not.

  The thought lingered, troubling: He should not? Who was to say what he should and should not do? His father no longer controlled him—how dare his mind act as though it were not his own? He was free to align himself with any person or philosophy he chose.

  Resentment moved through him like lightning through sky.

  He kicked the door, which splintered down the center but did not otherwise budge. Its edge cleared the frame as his foot struck again. Furniture crashed to the floor inside. Wooden legs snapped as the table fell over. A third kick knocked the door off of its hinges, sent it spinning into the dark interior.

  In the silence that followed, he heard the distinct click of someone cocking a hammer. He identified the weapon from this sound alone: an alchemical cannon, a handheld weapon capable of hurling an iron ball at great speed.

  “Hold it!” he bellowed into the room. “I know you have a cannon. Don’t waste your shot on me, it won’t do any good. I’m just here for one of your guests. Once I have her, I’ll leave, and you can board up again.”

  A flash of light. The bullet stuck his forehead, rocking him backwards. He did not even hear the discharge, so loud was the tone that reverberated throughout his body. He hummed like a struck tuning fork.

  Pain. One or two of his spheres had been knocked loose by the blow. “I’ve got another coming!” a voice called. “Don’t come any further!”

  In four heavy bounds Berun had the innkeeper by the collar. He slapped the weapon from the man’s hand and lifted him from behind the bar.

  The temptation to hurl him into the street nearly overcame Berun, yet he resisted. Hurting a blameless man would not ease his temper. He hungered for a fight. Once he got Churls back to the monastery, he would return to find a contender. Rioters or Tomen, Adrashi or Anadrashi—it would not matter as long as they stood a small chance against him.

  “Stay put,” he said, blue eyes flaring brightly enough to illuminate the room. “Don’t try to stop me. Don’t call for help. Don’t send anyone else to do these things for you.” He put the man down and turned toward the stairs.

  On second thought, he turned back.

  “The Castan woman is my friend. If you helped her, then you’ve got my thanks.”

  ‡

  On the night of their arrival in Danoor, he had left Churls and Vedas at the door to the brothel. He did not want to intrude while they said goodbye. Hopefully, they would speak plainly and honestly with one another, but he did not think this likely. It had been one way with them for too long, and Vedas could not afford to be distracted now.

  After a long day of running, Berun felt on the verge of toppling over in the street. He rounded a corner and sat against a wall next to a refuse pit. He did not drift into dream or lose consciousness. Nonetheless, time progressed without him. Only when he caught himself tracking shadows along the ground did he realize morning had come. Of course, Churls was long gone, and the man who tended bar in the brothel offered no clues as to her whereabouts.

  With no leads, Berun made his way to the tournament grounds. He attended the first day of fights, most of which were held in open-aired arenas, little more than shallow bowls dug out of the hard earth. Careful not to be seen, he watched Vedas from a distance. He had no desire to distract the man. Moreover, he did not want Vedas to know that Churls was not in attendance.

  He need not have worried. Vedas had eyes only for his opponents. Brothers and sisters clapped him on the back as he made his way from bout to bout, and he stared straight ahead. Now and then a White Suit spat at his feet while he rested for a moment between bouts. He did not appear to notice. He did not even pause to look at the chalked bracket diagrams that had been posted at each arena.

  Berun attracted attention from others, however. Men who knew his reputation conversed with him, posed for alchemical image-castings next to him. Surprisingly, as many Adrashi approached as Anadrashi. Only Ulomi avoided him altogether.

  “Word has it you came here with the Black Suit, Vedas,” a fat Stoli merchant said. “He won’t make it through the day, I reckon. There are bigger and faster men than him.”

  “You’ve seen him fight?” Berun asked.

  The merchant pulled on his mustaches. “Well, no. But I’ve heard others talk about him.”

  “Are you a betting man?”

  The merchant looked like he had been asked if he breathed air. “Of course! Last year twenty percent of my income came from fight winnings. My wife has been asking for a badlander maid for years, and I was finally able to afford one.”

  Berun clapped the man’s shoulder hard enough to make him wince. “When it comes to the final bout, if I were you I’d bet black. Your wife will thank you.”

  Ten rounds occurred the first day. Vedas fought eight White Suits and two of his own brethren. He won each handily except for the day’s final, which occurred after nightfall in the immense covered arena. At eight feet tall, the huge Tomen from Bolas towered a foot and a half above Vedas, outweighed him by two hundred pounds. His strategy, taking punishment until an opportunity opened for an offensive, was simple but effective. Vedas worked every angle without apparent damage, and was caught twice by bone-crushing punches.

  But finally, inevitably, the Tomen made a mistake. He caught Vedas with a powerful left hook and—instead of falling upon his opponent as wisdom dictated—attempted to stomp down on Vedas’s head. Vedas caught the foot and toppled the man forward. From a crouch Vedas jumped six feet into the air and landed knee-first on the man’s lower back, where the suit material was thinnest.

  Spine pulverized, legs jerking uncontrollably, the Tomen did not beg for his life. Nor would it have been granted to him, for the rules were clear. Perhaps he appreciated falling to a brother rather than an enemy.

  Vedas straddled the man’s shoulders and broke his neck.

  Afterwards, Berun followed his friend discreetly from the arena to his tent. At its front entrance, Vedas turned to the raucous group of brothers and sisters that had followed him home.

  “Get the fuck away from me,” he said.

  A silver-haired woman stepped forward, hip cocked playfully. “I watch you all day, Vedas Tezul. You need a relax, brother. I can give.”

  “Yes!” one of the men called. “Go for him!” another said.

  Vedas’s features twisted. He scratched at the neckline of his suit, as though the material irritated him. Berun had never seen the gesture before.

  “I’ve had a long day,” Vedas said. “Longer than yours by far. I want a meal and I want to sleep. If you interrupt either of these things I’ll kill you.”

  Undoubtedly, this was an empty threat, but the woman did not know it. She and her friends sulked off, and Berun remained near the tent’s entrance for a time, quietly t
urning away anyone other than tired fighters—anyone who might keep Vedas from his rest. He then returned to the city and searched unsuccessfully for Churls. When morning came he walked back to the tournament grounds and lay in the sun before the bouts began at noon.

  ‡

  He did not enjoy the second day of fighting. Without adequate time to recover from their recent beatings, even the strongest fighters became sloppy. Men lunged gracelessly for the quick kill, taking chances no competent fighter should. They went into bouts with broken shoulders, arms, and legs. On one occasion, a woman pulled herself into the ring with a shattered pelvis. After eight years of brawling, Berun had never seen anything like it. A tournament was not supposed to be a battlefield where men were broken, but a place where skill reigned.

  Pathetic, how much joy the suited spectators took in watching their most proficient fighters gutter out like candle flames. How the orders roared when two men on quivering legs eventually fell into one another, clumsily reaching for the other’s throat. Few shined as brightly as Vedas, yet as exhaustion set in everyone resorted to dirty tactics.

  Yes—even the best of them. Berun left the arenas when Vedas threw sand in his opponent’s eyes in the fourteenth round, and did not come back until the final. He knew Vedas would make it there.

  Both of the final fighters accounted well for themselves. They proved calm and deliberate in their strategies, but Berun saw the underlying weakness in the set of their shoulders and the imprecision of their footwork. So far gone with fatigue and injury, neither would have stood a chance against a healthy opponent.

  When the end came, it was mercifully quick.

  Subsequently, Vedas lacked even the strength to push Grey’s body off him. Several brothers hoisted Vedas on their shoulders, and did not listen to him when he demanded to be put down in order to retrieve his speech. The crowd had become violent, and the Black Suits wanted to get their champion to Aresaa.