by Wilf Jones
‘Would not the owner be pleased with this for such a young horse?’ The old man held in his open palm five golds. Owen was amazed. He was hoping to buy the two year old himself. He’d thought of offering Will Skillern twelve silver pennies for it. Here was a man prepared to pay five times the price. Owen was tempted, but it wasn’t done. Will hadn’t yet agreed to sell.
‘He’d be pleased, that I’m sure, but the selling is his decision, not mine. Why not come down and speak to him?’
‘No, no, no. Listen to me,’ the old man’s voice deepened, ‘Listen to me! I will give you these five pieces, and also my sword for that horse. Are you listening?’
‘I’m listening.’ And why shouldn’t he listen? It was only fair to hear him out.
‘The miles are long. Night is drawing in.’
‘The miles are long, it’s true, especially on two feet.’
‘I cannot walk all the way.’
‘And the night’s drawing in. And there’ll be rain later.’
‘I must have the horse’
‘You can’t walk all the way. In the dark, and the rain.’
‘Five gold pieces and this sword.’ The old man picked up the sword. ‘Is that not fair?’
‘It is a fair price. Better than fair.’
The old man cast off the cover and drew the sword from its sheath. ‘Look at the sword. Is it not a fine weapon? A thing of beauty?’ The jewel in the hilt glinted in the gathering dark. The blade was black but with a sheen to it. ‘You will take this sword, and take the gold. Pay the man for his horse but keep the sword. The sword is yours, take it. Take it!’
Owen slid down from the horse. He wanted to get closer to the blade – just to look. What a fine thing it was, a weapon of beauty and power. He grasped the offered hilt, ran his fingers over the smooth length of the blade. So fine, so balanced, and not a blemish. It was perfection. Victory sang from its hard edges; called out to the warrior in him. The hilts were warm in his palm. He raised the sword to the skies, a salute to its potential, imagining glory and valour and praise. With this sword he would bestride the battlefield; men would flock to his side. With this sword he would be the saviour of the world.
When he came to himself he was still standing, the sword in one hand, tip lowered to the ground, and the five pieces of gold in the other. The scabbard was propped up against a boulder. He picked it up, belted it on and sheathed the sword. The coins were thrust into his pocket and then he set off on foot down the darkling hill towards home. What choice did he have? The horse and the old man had gone. His only concern was in how he was going to handle Will Skillern.
III
THE EVIL THAT MEN DO
The Gift of Ah’remmon
An extract from ‘The Song of Ages’ attributed to The Keepers of the Truth, published Astoril 3069 by Gombret and Son.
It was in opposition to the Gift of the Father that Ah’remmon gave Mankind the Blood Rite.
The King of All That Is was pleased that so many of the leaders of Mankind had bowed to his Rule and so he called to him the most powerful and most faithful of his servants. These men and women were of many sorts: some were kings by arms, some were priests in his service and yet some were men and women of considerable strength, Magi, granted knowledge and power in the making by Zurvan himself. These last, who had turned their faces away from that Bright Child of the Truth, became known as the Black Magi, whose get would live to alter every Age of the World, and never for the good.
And when they were gathered Ah’remmon asked of his own:
‘Each of thee is pleasing to my sight and I would give thee a gift of my own hand. How then shall I reward thee?’
It is not wise to ask anything of a god, still less the Lord of Darkness, and many of the people there gathered had the wit to keep silent and to still the words of others.
‘As it pleaseth thy Greatness,’ was the only reply they could give.
Ah’remmon, whose own people were nothing but as tools to him, gave according to his design, as is the way with Gods.
‘My gift is this: I choose to make thee vessels of my truth.’
And at that word he opened a vein in his arm with one talon of his right hand. The blood of Ah’remmon was black like tar. In his left hand he took up a leaden cup and filled it with that blood and presented it to his servants.
‘Here is a cup of my blood,’ he said, ‘the blood of an everlasting covenant with my people; drink of it and know the gift of life. Do this in worship of me.’
Some have said that the Cup of Ah’remmon survived all the destruction of the Ages but that is of no matter for the blood of Ah’remmon at once became mingled with the blood of Mankind and from that moment there could be no turning back. Those few he had blessed soon understood the nature of the Gift of Ah’remmon, and soon understood their curse.
ABLUTIONS
Huaresh 3057.7.27
Benito struggled to keep all the wood, the small branches, the scrap twig and cut, inside the basket. It would twist so in his grip threatening to spill the lot. A wise head might have told him to try carrying less and then he’d be more successful. He thought that through. He knew he’d always been a little slower than the other lads. It wasn’t that he couldn’t think of things: his thoughts just didn’t seem to connect with what he was doing. Not quickly enough anyway, and not now with his wits scrambled. No. No, Benito would not think of that. All he knew and all he wanted to know was that the master had said to get firewood, and lots of it, and so that’s what he was trying to do.
With his arms aching he stumbled towards the house, taking a long route that kept him away from the bad things, much as he’d been stumbling towards the house for the past week. He no longer stopped to look at the destruction. Perhaps all houses were like this now. Certainly all the houses in the village were damaged in some way. This one, their home, had lost a quarter of the roof and half the frontage on the first floor, and one side wall had somehow been exploded into splinters. Benito had no idea how that might have happened. Hidden away in Ma Bera’s cellar at the time, he had no idea either how the schoolhouse had been destroyed. These things were mysteries, but he didn’t need to know and he wouldn’t ask. He made for the front door, which he had left ajar with the quietly pleasing idea that the scent of the honeysuckle clinging to the wall might drift inside and be a better smell for his master and the little ones. No one would have understood if he tried to explain why this would make him feel happy because his words always came out jumbled. But that didn’t matter, in fact none of the awkward or mysterious things mattered anymore because something wonderful had happened to them. Now, like the rest of his new family, he knew that he was blessed.
Inside he made his way through a small parlour and into the reeking kitchen.
‘Got it!’ he called out.
‘Good lad. Ah aaehh, you’re such a good lad Benito. What would we do without you?’
The master waved at him from his chair, every movement giving him some sort of pain that Benito could see in his face, shooing the lad and his load over towards the range and little Carla who was busy supervising the pots and pans and bubbling things. Benito liked Carla a lot because she reminded him of his little sister.
On the table the baby squalled as the Signoren fumbled with the swaddling. The baby, their blessing, had done another poo and it was time for a bath. And it was time to change the Signoren’s dressings too. That was fine. Benito didn’t really understand why that was fine and right, and made him feel like the honeysuckle: it just was and it just did. And when little Carla learned to speak again, as the Signoren had said she would, then everything would be fine.
Fletton-on-Marsh 3057.7.27
On the eastern edge of Gothery there were others in need of hot water. A bedraggled looking, feeling sorry for themselves sort of a crew stumbled through the salty bogs towar
ds the small town of Fletton-on-Marsh. Covered in mud and sand and rotting weed they were unlikely to enter the town unnoticed. Seama laughed as he mulled over his battered plans. His laughter lacked humour and went un-remarked upon by his companions who understood the meaning of it only too well. Their planned detour via the marshes was intended to deliver thirty or more well equipped men and women into Middle Gothery, all capable of making their way as they pleased. Fate had dealt harshly with this plan. Without food, money, weapons or even sufficient clothing, all was in ruins. Ten of them remained to carry the burden of survival, mostly without any hope of a happy outcome. Their spirits were weary. Some bore the horrors of Tumboll better than others but all were scarred.
Seama’s grim laughter was a poor disguise for his grief. Among the fatalities of Tumboll were counted Bellus and the Mule: his ‘family’. The bereavement was nearly too much to bear. Guilt dominated his thoughts. There had been too many deaths. Surely with all the power at his command he should have been able to save them. For some reason he could not comprehend, the power he had come to expect as his birthright had deserted him. He should have been aware of the imminent danger much more clearly; he should have been able to control the pangalori. The power had failed him for the first time in his life and others had suffered for it. He laughed again even more bitterly. ‘Pyrotechnics! Ha!’ Was it credible? The Great and Mighty Wizard Lord Seama Beltomé reduced to risky tricks with fireworks! What had happened to him? He understood well enough, better than anyone, that the power inherent was not of constant strength and it was true that other Wizards found the power unpredictable, but for this to affect Seama Beltomé was unthinkable. Seama was not as other men: he was the Sayoshant. He shook his head in bewilderment. After over one hundred years of sublime certainty the Wizard Beltomé had at last discovered doubt, the unthinkable had happened and the consequences had been severe. What if the power were to fail him altogether?
‘Never! Impossible!’ he spat out the words in answer. His companions, not party to the debate, questioned him with looks but he chose to ignore them and strode on ahead, his thoughts locked in a tangle and a fury. He should have able to save them. They shouldn’t have died. The guilt, that is always and everywhere the scourge of bereavement, was remorseless.
Fletton-on-Marsh could be approached by a single log causeway, the major road from the west, or by several criss-crossed tracks from the east, tracks that wove erratic paths on rush mats and pontoon bridges through a sodden land of marsh grasses, dykes and still pools. By one of the latter the company advanced. Only Seama knew what gain there was to be had from these wetlands but he was silent and no one else cared enough to ask. The air was thick with billowing clouds of insects all prepared to bite or sting and the stench of the marsh under the broiling sun was nauseating.
‘And about bloody time!’ burst out Sigrid. She had not spoken since they left the raft. ‘Is that really the town ahead or am I delirious?’
‘You’re not unless I am too,’ said the Captain, shading his eyes with a stubby paw. ‘Lot of buildings, wood by the look of it. I reckon it must be this Fletton we’re supposed to be making for. That right, Seama? Seama?’
Seama looked up. He had been concentrating his gaze on only the few yards ahead of him for far too long. Looking up at last, and seeing the town for the first time he actually managed a smile of relief. ‘Thank the gods innumerable! Yes it is. Do you know I was beginning to think this path was going in circles, and the stench! It’s as though it clings to you.’ He surveyed his besmirched companions as if seeing the mud and filth for the first time. ‘In fact it is clinging to you. Us. Gods but I could do with a bath.’
‘Couldn’t we all,’ Sigrid agreed, sniffing and pulling a face, ‘but are they likely to take us in? We don’t look good and we don’t smell good and I don’t know about the rest of you but I haven’t a farthing: my purse disappeared on Tumboll.’
A search of pockets produced barely enough to buy bread.
Isolde at this moment appeared to waken from a trance; she broke silence only to embarrass herself:
‘What can we do? What can we do?’ she said with a surprising degree of agitation in her voice. Perhaps, like Seama himself, she had been filling this strugglesome, silent, hopeless march with far too much thinking back. She moved to clutch at Seama’s arm. ‘What shall we say?’ she begged, ‘How… how can we carry on?’ Overcome with sudden weakness she sank to her knees and wept as though everything was lost.
‘Steady on girl,’ said Bibron as gently as he could while levering Isolde to her feet, ‘No need to fuss now is there? Now that we’re safe and we’ve the Lord Seama with us. He’ll have everything sorted, soon as you like. That’s right, innit Seama?’
Once again Seama did not appear to have heard the question but now it was because he was too busy studying Isolde’s face. He was unexpectedly taken with the sheer beauty of it. The bruises she’d carried when she first joined the expedition had faded and now the smooth skin seemed radiant in the strong summer light. Her anguish didn’t mar the effect: the tears rolling down her cheeks made him want to reach out and brush them away. Or kiss them away.
‘Well My Lord, what is the plan?’ Bibron tried again.
‘The plan? Oh yes, of course, Captain Farber. Fletton’s the answer. If we’re lucky, and I’m sure we will be, we shall find a friend of mine,’ the wizard reassured them. ‘He’ll sort us out. The only problem is he may well have given up on us and moved on. If he received my message from the Council he was asked to wait until the twenty-fifth: today’s the twenty-seventh of July.’
Angren was frowning. He disliked the histrionics, of course, and he had begun to wonder what on earth this woman was all about, but more importantly than any of that he was concerned about Seama. He worried that his friend seemed distracted. It wasn’t like him to be so unfocussed, so lost in thought. He worried that the distress of Tumboll might somehow have changed him. Could they still rely on him to keep them safe, to do the right thing, to always have a plan? Was Seama still in control? So far this mission had been less than a success: how long would it be before the next disaster struck?
‘Who’s this friend?’ he asked.
‘Wait and see. His name is Terrance De Vere.’
The noon bell was ringing as they walked into town. People stared at them, some amazed, others concerned, some highly amused. One or two faces were openly hostile. Angren tried to brazen it out with a haughty expression but the few jokers laughed all the louder for it and so he gave up. It would have to be lunchtime! Hundreds of people had stopped work and were sitting on shady verandas, relaxing before their noonday meal. Angren’s only consolation was that they were in Gothery and not Terremark where the catcalls and laughter would have been deafening. Gotherians were legendary for their reserve.
Seama took the lead, more confident now that he knew where he was going, and they soon reached the town square. It was an uninspiring muddy place with pontoon walkways connecting the various drab buildings. And yet for most visitors it was strange to the eye: all the houses, shops, inns and halls stood on stilts with the bottom floor of each at least six feet above ground level. Though dry now the square suffered regular and severe flooding. Three hostelries competed for the variable trade but Seama didn’t hesitate in his choice. Angren was pleased to see him stride off with purpose toward the cleanest and brightest of the three. The brightness came from window boxes full of colourful marsh flowers but it seemed cleaner because it was the only painted building in the square. In any other town the blue walls would have been sneered at, but here the inn was an island of taste in a mud-smeared, pitch-coated sea.
That the wizard hadn’t chosen the hotel for its beauty soon became apparent. Angren saw that the owner, who stood defensively before one of the inner doors of the house, was not so very well pleased at the prospect of having this dirty crew trample mud into his floor mats. His eyes
revealed dismay, disgust and doubt in equal measures. Seama forestalled anything he might have said.
‘Apologies Landlord, for all the mess we’re making. I insist that, when we are bathed and clean, we’ll borrow your mop and bucket to make amends. Meanwhile I’d be grateful if you could tell me if—’
‘Where the devils have you been?’ came a cry from within as they edged through the door. A tall thin man was pacing towards them from a small parlour on their left. ‘Honestly! How you can expect me to spend more than a week in a place like this, I really don’t know.’
He was dressed in dapper style with flounces and baggy sleeves; he wore thin moustaches that curled at the edges and a wispy shaped beard that exaggerated his already angular chin. He was just the sort of dandy Angren habitually despised.
‘This is your friend?’ he asked, barely disguising the contempt. The friend to his great credit managed to ignore the tone in Angren’s voice.
‘Landlord,’ he said, ‘these are all friends of mine. Could you find room for them, and perhaps some hot water? I shall meanwhile open up the windows!’
The Landlord was still hesitating. ‘It’s all very well, Mr. De Vere, but you’ll forgive my asking who’s going to pay for them? Would they not be better with Vick’s place?’
‘Mr. Severan!’ De Vere was aghast. ‘I must assure you that, though it may be difficult to tell at present, these guests of mine are all gentlemen and fine ladies of Pars. Obviously they have suffered some misfortune and if they find themselves robbed and poor, I will myself guarantee your fee.’