Tulak stood in the disused dungeons of Be’uccdha, waiting for the Magoria weed he had consumed to overtake the hatred in his mind. Damn the new Dark for a fool! He had never failed in his tasks as Djahr’s Guard Captain. He had been faithful and … conscientious. Hmmm. Tulak smiled as the upswelling of bliss found him. He liked the way that word slid through his mind. Conscientious. Like a lover’s lips.
Only Tulak had no lover now. The cousin who had shared his bed and his Magoria weed left him the day of his demotion. Still, in his euphoric state that felt like providence. Now all the Magoria weed was his. Little though it was. His supply of the family’s secret crop had been reduced in line with his new status of lieutenant. The physician had told him he was lucky to have retained that rank, but Tulak was in no mood for condolence. His thoughts were all taken up with the necessities of his addiction.
Yesterday he had received his weekly allotment. Moments ago he had consumed the last of it. Tomorrow …
Tulak smiled, drug euphoria dulling his desperation. Tomorrow may not exist. But today existed. He would enjoy today. Thus, when he found his rubbery legs again he raised his brand, holding it high to light his way as he stumbled past silent empty cells that stunk of the urine and fear of long-forgotten prisoners. At the end of his trail was an abandoned section of the dungeon. The perfect place to have secreted the Cliffdweller girl.
The door stuck and he shoved against the creaking iron hinges, grunting at the effort, until at last it opened and he was in, kicking aside ancient straw to put his brand in the rusted holder, illuminating the small, fetid cell. The Cliffdweller girl hung from the wall where he’d left her, dress torn to rags, welts in various stages of healing across her thick muscular body. Her eyes were closed. Had she finally succumbed to his torture?
Clever Tulak, faking her death when they’d first arrived back at Be’uccdha with her. At the time, the physician had been busy tending the Verdan lord, Barrion, who yet lived despite losing his arms and legs to infection.
Many years earlier, this same barrel-chested lord of the north castle had visited Be’uccdha, and Tulak had been impressed with his intricate inventions and his brilliant battle strategies. Barrion of Verdan had been an important ally to the throne and a vital member of the King’s Council. But the ale-drinking giant of a man with the booming laugh was gone. In his place lay a limbless travesty of humanity the physician had struggled to keep alive until the new Dark returned.
Thus Tulak had been easily able to keep the Cliffdweller girl a secret. She had become his plaything, someone to punish for the absence of her people, shirking their duty and making Tulak’s life so much more difficult: scarce food, long hours trailing nets into the ocean, some of his men slipping in and drowning. He hated Cliffdwellers and this one had borne that anger in various forms.
Then Lae of Be’uccdha had returned as The Dark, full of queries about her childhood playmate — a Cliffdweller girl who could sign and understand language. How Tulak had rejoiced when he’d said the name Hush to his prisoner and had received a response. The Dark’s dearest friend was his captive.
The woman who had demoted and publicly demeaned him may never know of the insult and injury he continued to inflict upon her friend, but Tulak knew. And that knowledge was almost as potent as the drug he was addicted to.
‘Waken to pain, Cliffgroveller,’ he said and slapped Hush’s face, a hard cracking blow.
Her head spun and her cheek hit the wall behind her, then it rolled back and her chin came up, her wide golden eyes opening, dazed, uncomprehending. It was always like this. He could hurt her in any way his whims led him and she would always react with confusion. It was as though she wasn’t completely there. Only the mention of Lae’s name or her own caused her to react, as though searching out a memory she had lost.
‘Your friend has been here a week and already the people love her,’ Tulak said. He grabbed Hush’s chin and gazed into her dull eyes, hoping the madness in his own would frighten her. ‘But I hate her. As I hate you.’ He laughed then, a diabolical laugh, but the drug made it high and discordant and that sounded funnier still — the funniest thing he’d ever heard. He laughed until he felt sick and at last found himself on the floor propped against the door, his eyes wet with tears of mirth.
‘Oh, I am a better fool than that Sh’hale jester,’ he said and rose, then staggered forward and stopped in front of Hush, who still wore her habitual expression of confusion. ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked, wondering if he would ever feed her again. He had experimented with depriving her of water for days but her resilience had surprised him. Neither had she eaten in almost a week, yet when he pulled apart the scraps of her dress he could scarcely see her ribs under the thick muscles of her torso. No breasts to speak of, and the strange fur covering her maidenhood did not invite punishment of a more intimate nature.
‘Is that why our lady The Dark refuses the Guardian’s suit?’ he said, and ripped the rest of Hush’s dress away. ‘Does she prefer the pleasures she found with you … misshapen, travesty of a female.’ Tulak closed his eyes on an upswelling of nausea. Had he laughed too much? Or was the weed making him sick as his great-aunt had told him it eventually would? ‘Did you lie with your friend Lae and lave her skin with your coarse tongue?’ he asked, feeling sickened anew to think of The Dark, whom he already hated, moaning in the arms of this … creature. Tulak knew there had always been men who, out of curiosity or desperation, had forced themselves on Cliffdwellers, both male and female. And so placid were Hush’s race, they would not struggle against it, but Tulak had beaten his Guardsmen at the merest suspicion that they had debased themselves so.
‘Soon you will die,’ Tulak said, and knew there was truth behind the threat. Either his own anger at The Dark or fear of being discovered would see him end his daily visits to torment Hush. ‘Perhaps I will cut off your head and when it is dried I will “find” it and present it to your friend.’ He picked up her lolling head by its matted hair, which was stiff as a sea sponge, and pushed it back against the stone wall she hung from. ‘Do you think she will be pleased to see you again?’
Hush’s lips moved back and she bared her thick grinding teeth. Tulak was frowning at this when her body shot forward, stiffened and straining from the wall, her eyes so wide it appeared that her eyeballs would spring forth from their sockets, her mouth open in a hideous silent scream.
Tulak fell back a few steps and when he could find his voice, shouted, ‘Stop!’ But the Cliffdweller didn’t move. She somehow managed to hold her stiff pose, and as he watched, her eyes began to cloud. He stepped closer, his instinctive fear quelled by the strange transformation occurring. Her eyeballs were completely white now, as though the aging eye disease which had claimed his mother’s sight had suddenly claimed hers. But this whiteness moved, and even as Tulak stepped close enough to breathe on her face he saw that it was mist. Mist that cleared to reveal in both eyes a small figure of the Serpent of Haddash.
Tulak held his breath as the serpent reached a clawed hand into the mist below him and retrieved a sleeping Cliffdweller half his size. Either the Cliffdweller was huge, or the Serpent God Tulak had seen on the Plains with the Northmen had shrunk. He watched in silent horror as the serpent devoured the Cliffdweller, first his arms, then his legs, and last his head, before tossing the torso away and reaching into the mist for another.
‘What is this?’ Tulak whispered. Then, ‘Where is this?’
The small serpent, as though hearing his voice, turned in Tulak’s direction and opened his razor-toothed jaws, loosing a stream of fire that shot from the Cliffdweller girl’s eyes and scorched Tulak’s before he could think to move.
Aaaaargh! he wailed and fell backwards, belatedly covering his face. But it was too late. His sight was gone. He did not see Hush collapse back against the wall, her eyelids closing as the last of her life left her body.
Neither could Tulak know that on the Airworld of Atheyre the small serpent had gone back to dining, working his way through the bodies o
f the Cliffdwellers and Magorian sea creatures he had found newly risen to Atheyre. Soon he would meet his progenitor, who had thought to save himself from the Maelstrom by hiding within the body of a White, sampling human pleasures like a puling mortal.
When father met son, then Kraal would know the true meaning of fear.
Soon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Mooraz stood chained in his cave, willing his fury to remain impenetrable. It had been a month since Noola had ordered him tied and gagged to thwart him from doing what honour demanded: presenting himself to the Guardian who would then take revenge for Mooraz’s part in his father’s death.
His Lady Lae herself had been outside the caves!
To have seen her one last time before he died … with honour. Noola had taken that from him, and without honour a man had nothing.
Yet though he struggled to cling to these ideals, in moments of weakness Mooraz remembered hearing the mourning calls for Breehan, soon followed by rages and the sound of heavy things being thrown, then voices trying to quieten Noola. She had not visited him for the whole month and each morning Mooraz woke and set in his mind the things he would say to her when she arrived, the anger he would express before righteously vowing to leave as soon as she released him. But as each day progressed, with new whisperings and loud arguments, he could not dismiss his growing suspicion that he and his pride were overshadowed by larger concerns.
Mooraz had expected sadness at the return of Breehan’s body. According to Hanjeel who had seen him last, their storyteller was greatly aged, and Noola had often spoken to Mooraz of the love she had held for Breehan, admitting shyly that the love was long gone. Mooraz did not want to think now of the possible reason for her coyness. He was no fool. Noola wanted him as a bedmate and he had vainly convinced himself that it was his naive prowess that had won her over. But what if it was more than that? If it was love?
Could he simply abandon her? And for what? His lady was safe. She no longer needed his service. It was Noola who needed him most.
Mooraz pondered this, alternating between reminding himself that honour was more important than life, and thinking that Noola had freed him when she hadn’t needed to and he owed her for that. She had been desperate to repopulate her tribe at the time that she’d captured him, and certainly a Be’uccdha sire was the least favoured choice.
Now they were all subject to the whims of the Maelstrom. Survival should be their highest priority. Not only that, the slow realisation had come upon him lately that all his thoughts concerned himself. His love of Lae and desire to see her, his honourable death being denied, his frustration at the Plainsman confinement. What had happened to the Mooraz whose life had been to serve, with no thought of his own needs? Had The Dark’s treachery killed that virtue? Or was it yet within Mooraz, able to be rekindled by another’s need?
Viewed in these terms, it was impossible to remain angry, and so when Noola finally came to his chamber he was silent and watchful. She did not knock but simply strode in and kicked aside his empty food bowl on her way to his fire, crouching well within the range of his chain while she restarted the flames. Her hair was uncombed and matted. As the fire built he saw her profile, a haunted eye and the stark line of her jaw as she stared at the licking flames. He watched in horror as she swayed towards them, then blinked and appeared to gather herself.
She rose and faced him. Even before her hands spoke he knew that something terrible had happened. Anxiety clutched at his breast and he was shocked to discover his feelings were all of protectiveness towards Noola. Fear for her.
Breehan was stabbed by your king, she signed, her eyes not meeting his own. We go to join the Northmen in alliance against the throne. She pointed north, to where Fortress Sh’hale lay. I will not rest until the murderer of our storyteller is dead.
Mooraz shook his head, all thoughts of his own grievances forgotten. ‘Mihale would never have —’
No! She cracked her hands together. Magaru read the flames. Your king stabbed our storyteller. Your king will die.
Mooraz searched her hard face for traces of the Noola he had known. There was nothing. The woman before him was all Plainsman leader, motivated by revenge, prepared to spend what remained of her race to achieve it. Noorinya herself would not have been more deadly.
‘And what of me?’ he asked.
She met his eyes, pushed her wrists apart. I release you. Go to your lady. Let the Guardian kill you. I care not.
‘What of your people?’ he asked, feeling a desperation to save her from herself, to protect her. Noola had only a son obsessed with joining and four other women, one of them too old to fight. She needed Mooraz, whether she would admit it or not, and the surge of satisfaction that came with that knowledge told him clearly he still wanted to serve. ‘The Northmen will put your children on spikes,’ he told her. ‘They will not be your allies.’ And even if they did join the Plainsmen against Mihale, their combined force would never breach the Volcastle defences. Mihale’s safety was assured.
I will kill your king and you will not stop me.
‘I see that,’ he said. ‘Yet … let me come with you —’
To trick me? She stepped back, shaking her head. You are loyal to the throne —
‘I have stood by once while Mihale was killed,’ Mooraz said, hating the taste of the words in his mouth but knowing he must convince Noola. ‘Let me protect you. I will not thwart your rightful revenge.’ Yet he did not say that he would be silent in the face of it, for at each step of their journey he planned to speak against Magaru’s telling and remind Noola that the survival of her people must come first.
We leave now, she signed, snapping her fingers.
Mooraz nodded. We. He could come. ‘The water from the sky …?’
None for days. Magaru says we must leave the caves. Ground shakes come.
‘Shouldn’t your concern be surviving the Maelstrom?’
We go. She had the look of someone who would repeat that gesture endlessly.
Mooraz nodded. ‘Unchain me then,’ he said and held out his wrist. ‘I will go with you.’
She did not hesitate. Minutes later their party had gathered at the cave entrance: five women, two men, twenty-eight children. Mooraz felt pity well up within him. How many would die when they reached the Northmen stronghold? All? It was a futile quest, but Mooraz would do as Noola ordered to remain at her side and protect her.
They left the darkness of the caves, and for the first time in four years Mooraz felt the sun on his skin. It shone weakly through the golden mists and warmed his back where his sword was braced. Even that simple pleasure lightened his heart. He would speak to Hanjeel, see if he could gain the boy’s assistance in swaying his mother.
Yet even as Mooraz looked across their troupe to find Hanjeel’s back, the Plainsmen stopped and several of the adults and older children raised a fist.
The signal of immediate danger.
A heartbeat later Mooraz felt vibrations beneath his bare feet. Earth shake! He searched out Noola at the fore and ran towards her, but the Plains floor suddenly rocked and tossed children and adults alike. He sprawled twenty paces from Noola and was struggling to right himself with one arm when the earth beside her opened and Hanjeel fell in.
‘No!’ Mooraz bellowed, even as Noola snatched her son’s arm, gripping it with both hands and nearly being dragged in after him before she could brace herself to pull him back out. The Plainsmen were eerily silent as they rolled and fell on the tossing earth, long training preventing the outcry Mooraz had indulged in. There was only grunting and the odd baby’s cry over the rumbling of rocks that echoed in Mooraz’s ears as he scrabbled towards Noola. She was sliding in but he reached her in time to grab hold of her ankle with his hand and yank backwards.
The movement would have jarred her, but Noola held onto her son’s arm as though holding onto life itself. Mooraz braced himself and pulled again, gaining ground. Noola’s arms were out of the crack now but Hanjeel was not. Eef
had reached Mooraz’s side by now and together they pulled on Noola’s legs, but a wild vibration through the earth saw them lose ground, and Noola slid forward as the Plains floor beneath them moved.
Abruptly the rumbling roar quietened and Mooraz could hear the whimpering of babes, gasps for breath and hushed reassurances from the mothers behind him. The ground had stilled. He let go Noola’s ankle and hefted himself up onto his knees, then closed his eyes.
Eef began to wail, ‘Hanjeeeeeeeeeeeeeel,’ the keening cry of mourning that told Hanjeel’s spirit that they grieved his loss.
Noola still clung to his arm with both her hands, but the rest of her son was gone, crushed in the rocks as the chasm had rejoined. All that remained of him was the protruding limb. Mooraz opened his eyes again and gazed at it, in shock this time. It was Hanjeel’s right arm, crushed near the shoulder. Exactly the limb that Mooraz had lost so many years ago.
He transferred his gaze to Noola, who lay staring at the remains of her firstborn in disbelief.
‘Hanjeeeeeeeeeel,’ Eef cried, and was soon joined by other voices as the tribe came forward and gathered around Noola. Yet still the leader’s expression did not change. It was as though she was locked into the moment of her son’s death and could not move on.
‘Noola,’ Mooraz said softly, next to her ear. ‘You are alive.’
Her gaze wavered, and he reached forward to unclasp her fingers from her son’s arm. No sooner had he prised them free than they latched tightly onto his own arm. He half carried, half dragged her a distance away from the mourning circle to assess her condition. Her eyes were wide and unfocused. ‘I am here,’ he said softly in her ear. ‘I am alive.’
She started to tremble and he pulled her closer to his body. They lay together in the dirt and Mooraz wished vainly for another arm then, to encircle her shoulders, to caress her hair, but the arm he owned was so tightly held by her he was unsure whether blood could flow through it.
‘It’s not your fault,’ he whispered, knowing the caves had collapsed behind them. By venturing onto the Plains she had saved the majority of her tribe, but Noola appeared to take no comfort from the fact. Her trembling grew into great shuddering heaves. He kissed her forehead and felt the wetness of her grief on his chest, but even as he comforted her, Mooraz was thinking ahead, wondering what they should do next.
Glimmer in the Maelstrom: Shadow Through Time 3 Page 20