by Darren Joy
The healer chewed more leaves into pulp, and stuffed the wound. Aside from the discoloration and flamed webbing, there was no blood, though it looked bad. Maybe she knew what she was doing. Time would tell.
‘Aeysth al Creek,’ she chanted. ‘Adal, Nageyiy al cas yisdar.’
‘Will he be alright?’
‘Aeysth al Diron. Adal, Nageyiy al cas yisdar lorum ... eh, what? Oh, we’ll have to sit and wait, sit, sit.’
He sat. It was the one space not cluttered with leaves and herbs or candles. He possessed little knowledge of such rogue healers. The Church’s paytors mistrusted them.
‘Ancient hags,’ he’d heard old Paytor Deel say of them, ‘ingrates who know little of healing, plenty of suffering. A wise man stays clear of them unless in dire need.’
Shakti rattled on in her strange tongue, as she sat opposite, then her words trailed off. She placed her knotted face close to his. Her breath smelled of old fish and garlic. ‘What were you doing out there, eh, eh? Shakti is no fool. Shouldn’t you be in the palace? Exile, yes, yes. What were you doing out there?’
Threadfin felt unnerved being this close to her. ‘You never mentioned how you found us.’
She sniffed. ‘The dead always stink. What was he doing with you?’ She gestured towards her patient. ‘He’s no ordinary man, this one.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Warded he is, yes, yes, but why’s he with you? Are the dead returning to rule the living?’ She cackled and clapped her bony hands. ‘Now, that would be a fine thing, yes, yes.’
‘I told you, I’m half dead, half.’ Perhaps she’d been to Icarthya but she seemed, to be blunt, nuts. Wrapped in a filthy cloak, he shouldn’t have been recognisable. He’d never ventured far from Icarthya, since he was a boy. It’s my face, he thought. Who hadn’t heard of the sickly son and his deformities, but no, that wasn’t it. This woman had seen his kind before, but when? Tezcat had been the only other viral he’d known of.
She gripped his wrist in a vice of bone. Her strength and speed shocked him, or was it just his own recent onset of weakness? ‘Let go of me,’ he blurted.
‘You were not alone out there.’ She was looking at him, anger in her ancient face. ‘You are not alone in here.’
As he thought, off her wrinkled nut. ‘I’m warning you, let go.’ He would hurt her, he would. I’ll do what I need to. Although a viral with meagre powers, and a thief, Threadfin had avoided harming others. He’d lived a non-violent life and was proud of it, though most breathers didn’t deserve the courtesy.
‘It was many years ago’, she intoned, expression blank. ‘Ah, Arla, the silly old crow. I was the younger one, and she knew more, but not enough, eh? Your father was the bigger fool in the end. He let you live. A black birth it was, but you live. The dead live, hah! Shakti knows everything, oh, yes, yes, but perhaps a fool’s choice will save us all. Twice, not once, but once was all.’
The story of the black birth had spread throughout the city, despite his father’s efforts. Did the entire world know of his vile beginnings? No, the exemplars would’ve descended upon him long ago. How did this woman know anything?
The Icarthian people, guided by the Church, revered the Holy Spectrum. The catechism contained in the White Daemoni, a dreary ancient text, taught that angels were goodness and light. A man casts a shadow, and thus has an evil soul. Therefore, the product of such a birth had to be a product of the Grimstyx – or Hell, as it was more commonly known as – and its master the Grim, a prominent evil character in the Daemoni.
Shakti let go of his wrist and gripped his face. Threadfin said nothing, with effort, as she wrenched his head from side to side, examining him as though he were a chunk of meat. She licked her lips. ‘You should be full dead,’ she said with a dismissive jerk of his head. ‘Much better if you were in the grave, and not up here with the rest of us, yes, yes.’
‘What do you know, witch?’
‘Shakti knows. Oh, yes. Poor old Shakti knows, but foolish Arla didn’t. You were a babe in arms then. Shadows watched over you. They marked you from the first. They hid you from all but those who could see. Shakti sees, yes, yes. Look at your hands. Open your eyes, dead one. Sight is blind and blindness is sight.’
Threadfin examined them in the sputtering light. For a moment, he saw through them, as though they’d faded. He pressed them together, making sure they were solid. Perhaps he’d imagined it. Yes, the old witch was putting ideas in his head.
‘You have too much to learn, dead one, but no time to learn it, no, no.’ Shakti turned back to her patient, prodding the skin around the poultice. ‘You need to learn, and quick.’
The witch fussed over her charge, bandaging the wound. She sat back on her haunches with a satisfied look. ‘Black rot will dissolve the poison in his blood, oh yes, yes, but that in his soul is for him alone. The poultice will heal the flesh, yes, yes. Not to remove that bandage, no, no.’
With a bony finger, she prodded the edges of the wound several times. Felps groaned, and she gave a satisfied grunt.
Who is he? Threadfin wondered. No ordinary common thief it appeared. She’d said he was warded, which meant magic.
Shakti moved to a cot in the corner. After wrapping herself in a blanket, she fell asleep. Her eyes remained half open, staring at him, and for a long time he didn’t look in her direction. She snored louder than a grolg with a head cold. He felt that gaze on him, condemning him for reasons he didn’t understand.
When he awoke, it was with a start. He didn’t remember falling asleep, didn’t know how long he’d been out. Virals slept a couple of hours a night, no more, some nights not at all.
Outside, a screech sounded in the forest. It was long and inhuman. It seared him to the bone.
THE FIRE IN THE GURD had burned low. Shakti scooped up and scattered the ashes. ‘Al Diron, hand and ear. Nibor, nibor. Nageyiy, hand and sight, my dear, oh my dear.’ She stared at Threadfin. ‘What did you bring with you, dead one? You bring death, oh, yes, yes, but what else?’
‘What are you doing, you daft hag?’ Threadfin snapped. ‘That mumbo jumbo isn’t going to help.’ The screech had animated the old healer into a strange ritualised act. Shakti sprinkled ash over Pole and herself. She stared at Threadfin across the dim interior. He received none.
‘What was that sound?’ He was certain she knew more than she let on.
She fussed over her patient, who moaned and twitched as she mopped his brow. ‘A hag, am I? I knew they’d come. Summoned to the palace, Arla was. “No choice,” she said. “Fool imperialists don’t know how to handle such a birth,” she said. Now they are here. We’re dead because of you.’ That last sounded more like a statement of fact, rather than an accusation.
‘What are you talking about?’ His father would never have summoned a pagan healer to the palatium.
‘The Fallen Ones, yes, yes, they’ve come. They don’t know I know, but I know, yes, yes.’ She continued speaking to herself. ‘A dead birth, it was. I’m too old for this, too old. A hundred and eight and he asks me what I’m talking about. How dare he ask. In my dreams, oh, my terrible dreams. A hag, am I? Yes, I am, yes, yes. But what is he?’ She glared at Threadfin with that last.
A wail shook the gurd, sending Shakti to her knees with a cry. Pole opened his eyes, and looked up at him.
‘We need to get out of here,’ Threadfin said, gripping the man’s hand. He was delighted to see him conscious. The woman had mentioned the, ‘Fallen Ones’. He’d never heard of them, but they didn’t sound the cheerful sort. He fiddled with the silver crucifix, the dull metal cold against his flaking skin.
He received a weak smile. ‘Not sure I’m able, lad,’ whispered Podral. ‘Got you this far. Others will see you the rest of the way.’
I’ll leave him. Let him die here with the crone. He felt the urgency growing within him.
As though reading his mind, Podral said, ‘Go without me. Get out of here.’ He struggled to sit up, but fell back with a groan.
The wail sounded right outside. He cursed both of them with equal passion. He’d left it too late. The door was of thick wood with bronze hinges, a wide crossbar. It looked sturdy. Threadfin wasn’t so sure.
‘Keep them out,’ screamed Shakti. ‘Aeysth al Diron. Linuncia, dear goddess of light and life, save me. Fakir, god of fate and fortune, watch over me. Adal, god of fire, burn your enemies in eternal flame. Manic and Mania, gods of chaos, remember your servant. Al Diron, deliver me.’
Setting the oil lamps aside, Threadfin manoeuvred the wooden chest. He shoved it against the door, placing the armour and other items on top. More screeches erupted. Nightmarish, like thousands of babies scalded at once.
Whatever was out there, he’d keep it out. He added his own weight to the blockade. ‘Hell’s Teeth, what’s after me? Who are these, Fallen Ones?’
The fire died to glowing embers, lamps and candles sputtering out. The air turned frigid. He didn’t suffer from cold like breathers, but he could feel the temperature change. The door rattled, as though a storm brewed outside.
Whoever they are, what did I ever do to piss them off?
Another screech shook the gurd. The wooden door split asunder, and Threadfin fell back. A silhouette stood in the shattered portal. ‘Give me your hand.’ The voice sounded disembodied, female, the thick accent of southern Adalalcas, possibly Hatavan. The forest beyond was aflame. Burnt winds from Keel carried screams and smoke. The figure kicked at the flimsy blockade, and extended an arm. ‘Your hand.’
‘Who are you?’ He couldn’t make out the face. The gurd vibrated, hard mud cracking and flaking.
A gurgling cry caused Threadfin to whirl. Shakti floated upward. Coils of flame entwined her arms and legs, illuminating the interior. They seeped from the mud walls in the form of grasping hands, which appeared human in form.
The healer’s face contorted into a scream, but there was no sound. It turned colder, which was odd considering the flames. The dirt walls blurred, then extended backwards as though made of molten tar. They stretched into the distance forming a fiery spiral. With them went the healer. Her face remaining, her body extended out thinner behind her. The vortex was devouring her, but in slow motion as though pulled out of time.
‘You must come with me,’ said the Hatavan voice.
Threadfin heard, but instead looked at Podral where he lay motionless on the floor, below the healer. He scrambled over to him, grabbed an ankle, and dragged him towards the doorway. He grumbled about all that muscle and fat on breathers, which made them awkward for lugging about.
What am I doing? he thought. I’m an idiot. Father always said I was an idiot. He swore as he dragged the barely conscious man. ‘Help me,’ he yelled at the figure in the doorway. A weakness seeped into him. Instinct told him it was his illness. It couldn’t have had worse timing.
Something grabbed hold of him.
As his feet lifted off the floor, the stranger kicked over the patchwork barricade, grabbed Pole, and dragged him outside. Threadfin was powerless to cry out or do anything. His body stretched out behind him in a spiral of flame. He couldn’t see it, but felt it as a numbness that spread upwards from his feet.
The woman returned with a dagger in hand. The iron reflected the ruddy gold of flames. Threadfin’s vision turned skewed as the scene became warped and dislocated. He saw double as a second woman stood below. There was a third, a fourth and they began to meld. Reflections in those iron blades beckoned to him. He was losing consciousness.
A voice sounded in his head. Fight, Threadfin, it whispered. Fight back! He thought it made a lot of sense, and he fought, becoming angry as he did. They’d ridiculed him for being different, spat at him, ignored his existence. They had shoved him aside, worthless, a dead thing. They’d murdered all of his kind. They’d murdered Tezcat, and now he was the last.
He struggled and felt a little give. He swore, anger turning to rage. They’d laughed at him, dismissed him as nothing. They killed little Cat. The rage reached a climax. He reached out to those iron blades, those other worlds within. The floor beneath began to split. He willed it to open and devour the fiery tentacles holding him. Wisps of ash rose from his arms and hands, his face.
‘Let me go,’ he shouted. The dark fibres formed into a shadowy aura that held his shape. It seeped from his shoulders down his arms to entwine his fingers. Pain lanced through his body.
Then, he was falling.
Moments later, he spewed onto the dirt a black ichor, which passed for vomit for the undead. Fissures crisscrossed the hard earth. A lone figure stood between him and the darkness, holding an iron blade. Cold he’d never known before coursed through him. Shadow wrapped his body from chin to toe, like a living cloak, protective.
Shakti remained within the grasping weave of flame, though there was little left of her. The stranger made no effort to help the healer. Instead, she tried to grab Threadfin, but then halted, taking a few steps back as though wary.
His shadow aided him, energising his body, and he crawled out through the door. Outside, flames licked the sky over Keel and much closer within the forest.
A wind filled the gurd. Rolling over, he glimpsed Shakti through the doorway as the blaze ripped her face from sight. He got to his feet and stumbled away. In the light of the forest flames, he noted several people surrounded the gurd. Two dead bodies lay close by. He recognised the face of Ludwole Felps, his throat cut. At the exact spot where, whatever it was, had broken through the wall, lay the female exemplar he’d seen in Lame. Her legs kicked as she bled out. Face plastered with golden hair, her body looked a riven mess. Perhaps, Felps had been standing guard while she’d attacked, or whatever it was she’d done. For a moment there, he’d thought he had freed himself, but of course not.
The Hatavan woman, who’d entered the gurd, shouted at others. Against the backdrop of flame, she was a blotch as she stalked towards Threadfin.
She dragged him to his feet. ‘We have to go.’
Threadfin resisted, fighting clear of her. He felt belligerent and confused. ‘What was that? Who were those people? What do they want from me?’
‘There is no time.’ She grabbed his arm again, and this time her grip was stronger. Against the backdrop of flame, she was hard to see. ‘You must listen to me.’
‘The Grim piss on you,’ Threadfin snarled. ‘Who are you? What is going on?’
She let go of him and paused for a moment before answering. ‘They are called thraels, sent by one far more dangerous. We are here to help you. The one that hunts you is not far behind. I’ve sent others to run interference, but you must come with us, now.’
No, he did not want to encounter Pen Luthus again, at least, not until he found a way to kill him. He owed him that, for Cat.
‘Listen to her, lad,’ said Podral, who was on his knees. He tried to stand but fell over. A man and a woman were at his side, aiding him.
Flame now lit the woman’s face as the fires spread. She had dark skin, her hair long and black, and face narrow. She wore a short sword on her left hip, sheathed in black leather.
‘What do you want?’ he demanded. It was her skin. It reminded him too much of Pen Luthus and she did carry a dagger. Well fine, it was a sword, but still. A viral needed to be extra careful these days.
‘I am called, Scatter,’ she announced, stepping closer. She placed both hands together interlocking her fingers, and made a curt bow. ‘We have been searching for you, Threadfin Todralan.’
‘I no longer use that name. It’s just Todder, these days. A good plain old borderland name. Nothing wrong with it.’
She smiled. Her teeth were white against her skin. It was then he realised he knew her face. She was the woman from his vision. ‘You will come with us.’ It was more command than invitation.
Threadfin took a step back, wondering how or if, he could escape. He gave up on thoughts of running, once he noted several other armed individuals surrounding him. They’d found him once, twice if he counted Pole. So much for his a
bilities. He couldn’t get two leagues without the living tripping over him.
‘You misunderstand.’ She held out both hands in a placating gesture. ‘We live for one purpose.’ She gave him another smile, ‘To serve the viral mage.’
Oh, right, thought Threadfin as she led him away, the others close behind. This woman wasn’t all well in the skull either. ‘And who, is “we” exactly?’
‘We are Aidari.’
Oh, I see, captured by Aidari extremists, just to make things interesting. He had to find a way to escape.
He noticed Scatter remained wary of him, by the way she threw him sidelong glances. A shadowy power resided inside of him, and she knew it. He didn’t understand it. He wasn’t certain he wanted to. He did remember the first time he’d seen it though, like it was yesterday.
Chapter 17
Ribbons of Purpose
Year 911YC, twelve years earlier
ONE WORD HUNG in the air. Nephilim.
‘They’ve attacked the Gulley?’
The high exemplar shook his head.
The imperator released a breath, as did everyone else on the wooden platform above the arena. Perhaps it was just another raid. The last of the executions had ended in the theatron below, the bodies removed.
‘Reports suggest thousands, my lord, several gulacs at least. A mix of clans. Riders arrived from Ossne and Odessa. Hundreds of long ships were sighted moving east and north up the coast, but the Seraphim above must love us, because the storms savaged them. Those that made land are too few to be a major threat.’
Markus Olen watched from his wooden throne as the plebeians exited the theatron, herded by spearmen, the day’s entertainment over. His distant gaze suggested he didn’t see them.
‘It means nothing,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘Minor raids as always, my lord. You know how inflated these reports are.’