by Rj Barker
“That does not matter to me,” I said, though as soon as I had loosed the words I knew it made me sound small. Neander shrugged and pointed behind me.
“It seems it is almost time for the burning,” he said. “We should probably find somewhere upwind of the pyre.” He lifted his mask slightly, pushing a rag up underneath to wipe away sweat then letting the mask fall back into place. “I have found it is more bearable if you cannot smell them charring.”
Gamelon started ringing his little bell again and we returned to our seating. The fire was hot—hotter than the still air, adding another layer of sweat to skin already damp. We sat no more than ten paces from it—upwind, as Neander had suggested, though there was no breeze to take the smoke away and it hung around the castle courtyard like hedge spirits awaiting the weakness of the hungry.
“Now!” said Gamelon. The pyre cracked and popped as the dung burned—steady and furious. “Now is a serious time, and one that requires reflection from all.” He raised his voice. “Now is a time of justice.” Landsmen moved behind him, attaching ropes to the fool’s throne and running them from the iron chair up over the apex of the crane.
Gamelon continued to talk, but I was distracted by Rufra whispering in my ear.
“Highguard should be doing that.”
“What?”
“The fool’s throne. This is the high king’s justice Gamelon pretends he is enacting.” The throne was pulled up into the air, Landsmen heaving on the rope while the man inside screamed unintelligibly. Further down from us, Boros had not moved. He sat and stared intently at his brother as he went to his death. “Power has shifted here, Girton,” Rufra said, “and it is not good for anyone, I think.”
“Not good for your ambitions.” I don’t know where the words came from. They tasted as bitter in my mouth as they must have sounded to Rufra’s ears and I expected him to blast me for it, to roar or to simply turn away and dismiss me. But he did not. He spoke quietly, looking at the wooden floor of the tiered seating.
“It must seem that way sometimes,” he said. “Am I cursed, Girton? Do the dead gods curse me?” His eyes were locked on to the fool’s throne swaying in the air.
“No, of course not.”
“I think I am. My wife dies, my children die, my aunt dies. So many have died and now another friend will die a horrible death because he served me.” He was as near to tears as I had ever seen him and my resentment melted away like ice in the heat.
“What happens here is not your fault, Rufra, and as for your aunt? Cearis fell from a mount, an accident, not a curse.” He remained staring at the fool’s throne.
“Tell me, Girton, did you ever meet a better Rider than Cearis?”
“Well, no …”
“And yet you believe she simply fell from her mount? When this is over …” He was distracted, his eyes pulled away from me by the terrible thing happening before us. The air filled with screaming of a new, higher intensity. The fool’s throne had reached the highest point on the crane and the ropes had been tied in place. Now the A-frame which held it was slowly being lowered by means of a locking winch. Above the pyre a column of hot air wavered and the nearer the fool’s throne got to it the louder the screaming became. Like everyone, I was hypnotised by it, helpless, unable to look away from how terrible it was: the slow lowering of a human into the flame.
At some point in the prolonged torture that was Barin’s execution, his voice broke—not cracked, not shattered, it broke. His mouth opened, his body shuddered and blackened as it broiled in the heat, but he could make no more noise. At times, I managed to pull my gaze away—Rufra also—but the horror always dragged your eye back. Some people left, quietly, and others noted them leaving. I heard people retching as the courtyard filled with the stink of roasting flesh. Some had come prepared, bringing posies and snuffnoses to hide the smell, though I cannot imagine it worked. I did not think anyone could bear to watch all of it.
But one person did.
Boros stayed still through the whole thing. Sweat dripped from his nose and he did not even wipe it away. He only stared as his brother was lowered into the flame. As the throne came to rest on the platform. As the platform gave way and dropped the silently screaming body into the embers. As his brother finally, and thankfully, died.
There was a relaxing in the courtyard then, and even those who had come thinking it may be an enjoyable diversion looked strained. Faces pulled out of shape by the horror of it, the image of the blackened body, still moving, burned into the backs of their eyes. The crowd, which had been so thick, had significantly thinned and we were far outnumbered by Landsmen and the Children of Arnst.
Even Gamelon looked a little hedge-feared. I think he was aware he had overstepped some mark, misread something in the crowd he had played to. Behind him Fureth smiled.
“I don’t think he will want me to dance, Rufra,” I said, aware hostile eyes were turning toward us. “I think we should be gone from here.” He nodded.
“Aye, there are few of our friends left.” Rufra stood, as did those around him. The air was dense with the smell of burning flesh and vomit cooking on the hot flags of the courtyard. We walked out through a corridor of Landsmen and behind them were the Children of Arnst. As we passed, the jeering started from the rag-clothed Children, and as we left the courtyard and entered the town more and more of them appeared. I moved closer to Rufra, to protect him, but as the shouting became clearer I realised it was not Rufra they jeered at, it was me. I started to make out words. First I heard Xus’s name among the clamour. I glanced behind us. Gamelon, Fureth and Danfoth stood together in the shadow of the castle gatehouse, watching us leave.
Then I heard the other word the Children shouted: “abhorred,” and I knew that Danfoth had finally tired with my refusal to come to him. The crowd roared my name, but I was no longer the Chosen. They had a new title for me.
“Girton Club-Foot, Abhorred of Xus,” they shouted.
The first rock sailed overhead. The Landsmen pretended not to notice and it struck the ground by me, then another. Without shields we would be stoned to death and the Landsmen offered us no protection.
“Rufra,” I said. He turned. From somewhere he had found a blade, as had the rest of his entourage. Now we were no longer, technically, in front of Gamelon they could show them without fear.
“We need to get away,” he said.
“No, it is me this is aimed at,” I said. “I shall distract them. You get back to the Low Tower and I will meet you there.”
“No, Girton …” But I did not hear what he intended to say. I was already moving.
I slipped to the right, hands touching the shoulder of one of the Landsmen who held back the Children. His mouth opened in an “O” of surprise as I vaulted over him and into the furious crowd.
My feet make contact with the chests of two figures in black, faces full of fury twisting into pain as they are knocked backwards, making a space for me to land in. My sudden violence stuns the crowd, pushing them back and clearing more space around me.
A moment of quiet while we regard each other.
The pressure of sound and people rushing back in.
Shouting.
Screaming.
The space around me shrinking.
A stone. Down. It hurtles past me and hits a man in the face and he falls beneath the feet of those clamouring to get at me.
“Abhorred! Abhorred!”
I am quick.
I am violent.
A grasping hand: break the fingers. A knee: slide aside, kick to the groin. Nails claw at my face: punching out. People push against me: my elbows create space in gasps of agony. Feet kick at me: I kick back, shattering a knee joint.
The crowd is a shuddering, vicious animal trying to roll over me in its fury. I punch out at faces, throats, knees, groins, anything vulnerable. See a gap, digging feet into knees and hips and shoulders to push me up and then the sheer press of the crowd creates a path over itself. I use heads like stepping st
ones. Grabbing hands are like the waving of weeds in water. I am the current that pulls them toward me.
“Abhorred! Abhorred!”
The crush of people lessening until it is not enough to keep me up high and I fall. Feet hitting mud and I am running, running. Into the alleys of Ceadoc pursued by the Children of Arnst.
Stones and rocks hurtle past me, digging into the wattle and daub of huts, clanging against thin metal, felling bystanders. I run round a corner into an alley. More Children coming the other way. Pulling myself up a rickety building. On to the roof. Running over material so thin it seems impossible it can hold my weight.
Crossbow bolts whistling through the air, forcing me back to the ground.
The Children should not have crossbows. Rocks, yes, but crossbows?
I run hard, round corners, again and again being headed off by the Children of Arnst. And more and more often I notice they are headed by men with swords and spears. The cult seems to infest Ceadoc. I change direction, always trying to get out, to head toward the main gates that lead out into the grasslands. There I can outrun my pursuers simply through persistence and stamina.
But no.
What I thought was a rabble is nothing of the sort.
It is a plan.
It is forethought.
I am turned and turned again. And at the last, when I finally think I have found my way out, I am caught. I see the gate, more of Ceadoc’s shanty buildings beyond but there is no wall around them. I just have to get through the gate. As I run into the clearing, black-clad masses pouring out the alleys behind me, men appear from the gatehouse. Soldiers. They form a shield wall across the exit and I slide to a halt. Behind me the crowd of screaming worshippers lets out a roar of triumph.
I can help you.
I picture pulling the life from the land, smashing the Children of Arnst against the ground and leaving a dead place to match the hidden souring beneath the castle. I can feel the possibility. My hands itch with thoughts of power.
But I do nothing.
To reveal myself will ruin Rufra’s chances of becoming high king, of doing something about this place I have come to hate. I cannot do that. I made a promise once and I will keep it.
The shield wall opened and Danfoth stepped out from it, striding across the sand toward me. In one hand he held a longsword that ended in a vicious hook; in the other a shield.
I drew my blades.
“Girton Club-Foot,” he said. “You killed three of mine.” I glanced over my shoulder at the watching crowd.
“I’ll be glad to make it four.”
He grinned at me.
“I have to prove I am the Chosen of Xus to my people,” he said.
“You’re not the first to say that. So far they have all been disappointed.” He gave me a small nod of his head and then raised his arms, holding the sword and shield aloft.
“Children!” he shouted. “Today I prove to you that Xus chooses me!” While he grandstanded, talking of their religion and the greatness of death, I took the time to get my breath back from my run through Ceadoc. Danfoth was a fool. He should have attacked while I was tired. When he finally finished shouting he stood back and took up a defensive position. I did the same. I did not expect an easy fight. I had no doubt Danfoth was a skilled warrior.
Though, even tired, I expected to win.
He came forward quickly, swinging his sword from left to right, careless, as if he really believed that Xus protected him and he could not be hurt. I did not try to block his swings; he was too strong. Instead I circled round him as he roared and slashed at me. There was something of the animal to him, and I wondered if he was drugged. I dodged to the left. His sword cut past me and I moved in, slashing downward, my blade scoring Danfoth’s face and opening a terrible wound.
He screamed—no, he roared—like an animal. The wound on his face fountained blood and he was lucky not to have lost an eye—yet seemed happy about it. His people started to chant, “Xus! Xus! Xus!” and Danfoth stepped away from me, holding his blade and shield aloft so the crowd could see the wound. He made himself an easy target. I could have used a throwing knife to end him there but I did not, suspecting some trick.
He came at me again with careless, wide slashes of his sword. I circled warily around him. What was he doing? I had reckoned him a man of skill and yet he showed none of it.
Did he want to die?
Why would he want to die?
And who was I to deny him his wish?
His slashing sword cut back and forth through the air with a hiss. It looked showy to anyone who knew nothing about bladework, but left him open to attack and he may as well not have bothered with his shield. We continued like this for long minutes—the only reason I did not lunge in and end him was that I expected some trick on his part, some clever device.
But if there was one I could not see it.
As we circled, I saw men and women appearing on the roofs around the clearing, bows half strung and aimed down into the clearing.
Sometimes the only way to find a trap is to spring it.
He swung again, his sword going from right to left, leaving his side open, and I lunged for him: never quite fully committing, always ready to spring out of the way if he pulled some clever move. He did not. My sword found flesh, cut through the wires holding enamelled plates and into Danfoth’s liver. A killing blow.
He roared again. Stepped away from me as I withdrew the blade and jumped out of reach of his sword.
He did not attack.
He dropped the shield.
Dropped his weapon.
Smiled at me, white teeth slick with blood.
“Xus!” he shouted. “I am reborn in you!”
And he fell face forward, the life leaving his body.
I felt betrayed. I had thought him better than he was. It was strange to be so let down by an easy win. I wondered what trouble could have been avoided had I killed him years ago.
Another Meredari left the shield wall. He did not come close and he wore no weapons.
“I am Vondire, priest of the Children,” he said. “May we take Danfoth’s body?”
I shielded my eyes from the late sun. Among the men on the roofs I saw Boros, watching. I nodded to Vondire, confused by what Boros being here meant. A crowd of black-clad worshippers came forward and they hoisted Danfoth’s bleeding corpse up on to their shoulders. They still chanted, but quietly now, no more than a whisper. The atmosphere was all wrong. There was something celebratory about it. Vondire watched as Danfoth’s body was removed. In the corner of my vision Boros stared down, almost as if he could not see me.
“Thank you, Girton Club-Foot,” said Vondire. “You did not have to do that.” He turned around and walked back into the shieldwall. As it closed around him I heard him speak. “Kill him,” he said softly. “He is abhorred.”
The chanting rose in volume. Spears stuck out from the shieldwall, glinting in the light. Sweat coated me, making me cold despite the heat. I stared up at Boros and the men with him, but he only watched. Had I been wrong? Was it actually Barin that stood there, laughing at the fiction I had believed? I would never know. I readied myself to meet Xus the unseen. There was no escape here, the Children covered all exits and Boros’s archers had a commanding position. At least Feorwic will no longer be alone in the dark palace, I thought, though I will be sad to die with her unavenged.
I closed my eyes.
She will forgive me.
I was ready.
A voice, loud enough that it carried over the noise of the crowd, shouted out.
“Get down, Girton!” It had the cadence of an order and, by instinct, I did what it said, throwing myself to the floor. Then the voice again. “Send them to their god.” I opened my eyes. From the wall above the shieldwall and on the roofs of the houses Boros’s archers started firing into the men and women below. Arrows cutting into the crowd. Volley after volley. I pushed myself into the ground as they ripped through the air above me.
&nb
sp; And then quiet.
I felt someone stand above me, looked up.
Boros.
I felt a shudder. He was pale, paler than any man I had ever seen. It would not surprise me if he opened his mouth and let out a howl, like a hedging spirit pronouncing a curse. In his eyes was something I had never seen before in him: fear. A wild and darting fear. In his hand he held a sword.
“Girton,” he said.
“I did not think you were going to help me.”
“I did not know if I was either.” He looked at the hand that held his sword. It was trembling. “What have you done to me, Girton? What have you done?”
Chapter 24
He was and wasn’t Boros.
He was and wasn’t Barin.
His troops moved past me, bows drawn. Following them came men and women with swords and shields, not many—twenty at most—but it was enough. The crowd that had attacked me were driven by fury and anger. When confronted by troops trained to fight and ready to kill they had vanished, running into the dark alleys and muddy roads of Ceadoc town. The only proof they had been there was the ragged bodies lying on the ground. The few troops that were left of the shield wall were cut down before they could run. Boros’s soldiers dragged the corpses away, killing those who were only wounded before they did. Then they created a cordon, blocking every entrance to the small clearing so that Boros and I stood alone in the centre.
He was Barin: the beautiful face, poise, perfect hair, and armour so polished it almost glowed in the torchlight. But behind the facade was Boros, my old friend. I had doubted, but now, looking at him, I was once more sure if it. I had felt the moment he was ripped from his tortured body and placed into this one.
And yet.
He looked at me like a stranger. His eyes saw me, but they also looked through me. His body was near me, but he was also far away. When he spoke, the voice was Barin. But the intonation, the subtle ways the words were moved by his tongue and his lips? They were Boros.
“What have you done to me, Girton?” he said again.