Shoreseeker
Page 55
Yarid looked away. He had seen murder—even done a bit of it himself—but this was something else. A wife, murdering her own husband. Not for greed or revenge or any motive that Yarid could fathom.
Murder for its own sake. Murder for no reason at all.
But that wasn’t quite right, was it? Reasons surrounded them, glaring at them with unconcealed hunger and hatred in their crimson eyes.
Would the sheggam break Yarid like they broke Jordin’s family?
He squeezed his eyes shut when he heard the sawing sounds begin. After the sounds ended, Yarid opened his eyes to see a pair of wicker baskets, produced from somewhere, sitting near the blood stain. In one basket were severed arms and legs, pointing in various odd angles, and Jordin’s head, his neck a bloody, ragged stump.
Yarid spewed up his meager breakfast onto his own feet and collapsed to his hands and knees. He heaved until there was nothing left in his stomach, then heaved some more.
Gorun strode his Yarid’s side, twined his fingers in Yarid’s long, unbound hair, and yanked him to his feet with surprising strength. The old man’s breath was hot on Yarid’s ear. “I brought you here because I believed there was something of worth in you.”
Yarid wiped the vomit from his chin. I am made of stronger stuff! He smiled, albeit weakly. “Consider that a purging of my weakness.”
Gorun searched his eyes, nodded, and released Yarid’s hair before stepping back.
The sheggam Patterner motioned to the two children. “Take that to the Stitchers,” the sheggam said, pointing at the basket with Jordin’s remains in it. The sheggam’s voice was harsh and guttural, yet articulate.
“The Stitchers?” Yarid wondered aloud as he rose to his feet, then realized he didn’t want to know.
In no hurry, the two children grabbed the handles on either side of the basket—awkwardly, as they both had to use their right hands—and carried it back down the steps they had come from. Without a word, Jordin’s widow replaced the bloody knife on the altar and followed her children without exhibiting a flicker of emotion.
At Yarid’s side, Gorun nodded. “Civilization always comes with a cost. With a human civilization, we have to stifle our emotions and our impulses, surrender them to the laws and to our betters, who best know how to direct such impulses.” He gestured to the blood stain that was once the man named Jordin. “Sheggam civilizations … operate under different rules. The costs to maintain order are different, but the necessity for costs is the same.” He began walking toward the altar. “Come.”
Frowning, Yarid shuffled after.
In front of the altar, Gorun pivoted smartly. Yarid was amazed at how fooled he had been by the man. All those years, Gorun had seemed like such a feeble old man; now Yarid knew it had been an act. To his eyes, Gorun’s stiff posture and confidence seemed to remove decades of wear from his body.
It was a dramatic change from the Gorun he had sat next to, almost daily, in the Council Chambers. So dramatic, that Yarid wondered if part of the change was genuine. If Gorun was, somehow, imbued with more energy and liveliness than before. This place can’t be doing it for him, Yarid decided. No one can feel good—truly good—about being here. But if not that, then what?
“Place your left hand on the altar,” Gorun said.
Yarid blinked, remembering Jordin’s disfigured family. “Have you lost your mind?”
Gorun’s expression darkened. “This is the cost I told you about. In order to be a part of sheggam society, you must literally become a part of it.”
Yarid couldn’t make any sense of that. But he knew right away that he didn’t like the sound of it. “And if I refuse?” Yarid asked, voice pitched low so that hopefully only Gorun would here.
Gorun’s answering smile was joyless. “Who knows.”
Yarid looked down at the altar, at that bloody knife. Then at the hulking sheggam soldiers. Not mad yet, he reminded himself. Not dead yet.
But for how much longer?
With a deep, quivering breath, he placed his hand on the altar.
Instead of picking up the knife, as Yarid expected, the sheggam in the headdress snatched the wide-bladed sword by the hilt and handle, and in the same smooth motion, brought it down quickly.
Bone crunched. Yarid screamed.
To be continued in Drawingpath …
About the Author
Brandon M. Lindsay was raised on a steady diet of science fiction novels from the time he was a wee lad until the age of twenty-two, when he overcame his snobbery and read his first fantasy novel. He quickly discovered that fantasy is actually pretty awesome and has never looked back.
While he has always loved books, he also loves video games. He started his own indie game development studio called Hearthsflame Studios, where he is developing a series of video games that tie directly into The Farshores Saga. That series is called The Birth of Maelstrom. For more information about it and all of Brandon’s other projects, please visit his website:
brandonmlindsay.com/
Other places to find Brandon online:
Twitter: @BrandonMLindsay, @hearthsflame
Facebook: www.facebook.com/brandonmlindsay.author/
Itch: hearthsflame.itch.io
To learn more about the World of Farshores:
www.worldanvil.com/w/the-world-of-farshores-brandonmlindsay