Against the Unweaving

by D. P. Prior

  Huntsman’s eyes narrowed and he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The pieces were together, he could feel that much, and something was using their power. Using it for purposes inimical to the nature of the statue. He could feel its revulsion and already the results could be seen in the streets of Sarum.

  He contemplated the now sleeping form of Sammy. The child had endured unbearable suffering and yet had trusted Huntsman like a parent from the moment he had led him from the woods. There was something about the child: Sahul favored him, and her cousin Eingana spoke through him. Maybe it was to balance the demands that had been made on his sister, or maybe Sahul was just being fickle. Huntsman wondered what the Wapar Man would have thought of a pale-skin speaking with ants. Would he have taught the boy the ways of the Dreaming?

  Sammy’s breathing softened into that of deep sleep, and Huntsman’s thoughts returned to the present. Three pieces of the Statue of Eingana were somewhere in the city, and another was still accounted for. He’d kept track of their whereabouts for more days and nights than there were grains of sand in a desert. He sometimes lost the trail of a piece for a while, but he would always find it again. The fifth piece, however, had always eluded him. Ever since the Reckoning, when the statue had divided itself, he had not been able to locate the other fang.

  He had taken one eye to Ipsissimus Thesarius over nine hundred years ago. He could not explain why, but it is what the statue had wanted. The other three pieces he had scattered the length and breadth of Sahul. One of them, a fang, had changed hands often, sometimes warranting intervention from Huntsman. He had finally reclaimed it from Ogalvy of Makevar and entrusted it to the anchorite of Gladelvi, where it had remained safe for centuries—until Jarmin’s visit to Sarum.

  Huntsman was bound to the statue. Since the Reckoning he had felt like its twin. If he took no action, the statue might be powerless to prevent itself falling into the wrong hands, and yet there was no guarantee that any action of his would not make matters worse. He must have done something right, he figured, for in more than nine hundred years the statue had remained hidden from Sektis Gandaw and life had been allowed to continue.

  But the gods—Sammy had seen them all dead. He had spoken with the voice of Eingana. It is a trap within a trap. What did he mean by that? Help my children. Whatever threatened them, Huntsman would stop it. He had to: they were his gods, his greatest love.

  Rising from the rocking chair, he looked down at Sammy curled up beneath the cloak of feathers, snoring lightly. He could hear the rattling of the death-cart pulling away and glanced out of the window. The white-robed woman was kneeling beside a man who’d collapsed on the street, and behind the towers of the Ancients, Walu the Sun-Woman had entered the tunnels beneath the earth, painting herself with ochre that stained the clouds as she fled.

  Matching his breathing to the rocking of the chair, Huntsman settled into the rhythm of the Dreaming and let his spirit soar free.

  ***

  Ipsissimus Theodore watched himself kneeling before the Monas in his private chapel in Aeterna. Twin candles cast long shadows on the walls and ceiling. Frankincense burned on the altar, rising like Theodore’s spirit, which drifted above his motionless body.

  Thoughts of Nousia, and how best to keep it from the errors of the past that had ultimately led to the Reckoning, dropped away from him. His hacking, wasted body no longer dragged him down, and he felt like a young novice again. He might have rejected the healing offered by the amber eye at the center of his pectoral Monas, but it had granted other gifts nonetheless, gifts that had not required more than a trickle of its power. At least now he could fly free from the tomb of his flesh and feel some respite from the disease eating away at his lungs.

  As he rose into the night sky of Aeterna, Theodore felt the joy of unity, a foretaste, he thought, of the bliss awaiting him in Araboth. Clothed in the white light of the spirit, he allowed his soul to float on the tides of emotion swirling about Aeterna until, picked up by an eddy, he was carried gently towards the scriptorium where Exemptus Ricci and Adeptus Dolobro were engaged in a fierce dispute about Ipsissimal succession. No doubt Theodore looked as bad as he felt, but nevertheless, he refused to draw on the healing power of the amber eye. Last time he’d done that, old evil had awoken in Verusia, and something even darker had started probing his dreams. The Elect had contained the Verusian threat, but he had no wish to draw any more attention from the presence he’d felt in his sleep.

  Theodore willed himself onwards and upwards, flying high above the night clouds where the scarred and pallid moon glared like a skull amidst the stars.

  “I am sorry for pain in your body,” Huntsman said. “Others would have used statue’s power by now.”

  Theodore turned towards the shaman’s spirit-form. “Don’t fret about me, old friend. I’m ready for my rightful home.”

  “That is good. Many dream of forever, which statue can give. Eye of Eingana—” He indicated the amber set at the center of the Monas’s circular head. “—can heal, yet you choose death.”

  “There are better things than to simply endure,” Theodore said.

  “Not all Ipsissimi were of same mind. Most used Eingana’s power, caused much trouble, but even so they are back in ground.”

  “Whereas you, without a piece of the statue, haven’t aged a day in centuries.” Theodore grew suddenly serious. “Something seeks the eye, always has. We Ipsissimi have lived in fear of it coming in our lifetime. That’s why I haven’t used it. Nothing to do with sanctity.” Well, he supposed it could have been, judging by what others said, but how could he tell? It was difficult to be objective about these matters. Hard to see himself quite as holy as he was supposed to be—had to be, when you looked at it. Sanctity went with the office, each incumbent donning it along with the white robes and biretta.

  “Gods of my people have a name for this fear.” Huntsman frowned. “Sektis Gandaw. They say that is why statue broke into pieces, so he not find it whole.”

  “Thought he vanished during the Reckoning.” To be remembered only by those with unnaturally long lifespans, or those entrusted with knowledge of the Ancients by the Templum. Sektis Gandaw had passed from history into myth. “Why did you entrust one of Eingana’s eyes to the Ipsissimi?”

  “Was where it wished to be.” A mischievous grin spread across Huntsman’s face. “Maybe it was frightened of dark.”

  “A Dreamer goddess seeking refuge in the heart of the Templum? I’d find it heart-warming were she not in the form of a serpent.”

  Huntsman chuckled. “Snakes sacred to us. Eingana has power over life and death. She gave birth to a child, part ape, part dog. It is his dreams Barraiya People walk with.” A mask of seriousness settled over the shaman’s face. “Two pieces of statue are missing.”

  Theodore felt a shudder run through his spirit body.

  “My gods say it is not Sektis Gandaw, but if statue’s power continues to be used, he will know of it. Has been a vision.”

  Theodore frowned at that, but gestured for Huntsman to go on.

  “A boy has seen dark things. My gods burned beneath Homestead. Something is coming. I fear this. Maybe even Sektis Gandaw himself. Maybe unweaving of all things.”

  “Can you find the pieces?”

  “I have their scent, but others have it, too. Mawgs hunt beneath Sarum and a Nousian seeks piece taken from Gray Abbot.”

  “One of the brothers?”

  Huntsman shook his head. “One of your Elect.”

  “But I have no knights in Sahul. Unless… The Keeper of the Sword of the Archon.” Exemptus Silvanus’s man should have found him by now. “So, Deacon Shader went back to Pardes.” An obvious move and one surely anticipated by Investigator Shin. “But what does this mean? Coincidence? What is he doing back in Sahul?”

  Huntsman cocked his wizened head. “I ask this, too. He stayed long time in village. Made boys into knights, gave them swords and armor; trained them like your fellahs.”

 
; Theodore snorted. Hubris. Vanity. It was no wonder… He cut off the train of thought with a silent plea to Ain.

  “Bald Clever Man also unhappy about this,” Huntsman said.

  “Aristodeus?”

  The shaman nodded, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Asked me to speak with Shader’s woman.”

  “Woman?” The sooner Shin returned him to Aeterna, and more importantly the sword, the better.

  “She … say no to him. Your Shader far too holy. She know that now. She have better life at Templum of Knot in Sarum.”

  Theodore didn’t miss the slightly sardonic tone. “What does this have to do with Aristodeus?” The meddling philosopher already carried too much sway in Aeterna. What was he doing popping up in Sahul on the other side of the world?

  “Cannot tell.” Huntsman spread his hands. “Aristodeus is mystery. My gods tell me he once walked within Dreaming and fell. Fell long way. They say his heart good, but they fear his pride. He crosses worlds with a thought, but leaves no footprints.”

  The man had wormed his way into the Aeternam archives and dined regularly with the exempti. Theodore was starting to wonder who carried more influence in the Templum. “These two missing pieces, couldn’t you use mine to locate them?”

  The shaman raised his palms, his spirit form starting to fade. “Power would pass between all three. Sektis Gandaw is not blind. Keep Monas close. Wear it when you sleep. It will speak, if you have ears to listen. I fear time is coming, my friend, when I will need to ask for your help.”

  The air shimmered and Huntsman was gone. Silvery motes swirled in his wake for an instant and then they too melted away.

  Later that night, Theodore awoke soaked in icy sweat. He rolled painfully from his bed and poured himself a brandy. Something had entered his dreams, something that wouldn’t reveal itself to his surface consciousness, but he could still feel it squatting upon his soul. Somehow, out of the dread came a sense of purpose, a feeling that he had spied upon the machinery of fate and knew what must be done. Looking at the glowing amber set within his Monas, Theodore’s mind threw up images of red desert and brilliant blue skies. Something was communicated between him and the eye of Eingana, though how he couldn’t say. He felt it calling him, leading him to Sahul, pleading with him to confront the end of all things.

  TO FIGHT FOR AIN

  Gaston stood in the stirrups and looked back along the column of knights riding single file across the red dust, chainmail shining, surcoats the virgin white of Nous. Fifty of the best recruits; the most committed; the most accomplished.

  They rode well, he nodded his approval; no more slouching in the saddle, no more idle talk. If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought them veterans, professional soldiers and not the impoverished farm-boys he’d grown up with. His father should have been proud. Not just of Gaston leading such an impressive force, but because they wore the Monas, the symbol of Nous; the symbol he’d lost his life for. But he’d have objected, wanted things done his way, same as ever. There’s more than one way to Nous, Shader always said. Takes the sword and the Monas.

  Gaston was sure that was why Aristodeus had come to him—because Shader had let the side down. Because Gaston was Bovis Rayn’s son. Because he had zeal for Nous and he knew how to swing a blade. He’d seen the philosopher once with Shader, right after he’d driven off the mawgs. Even so, finding the old man sitting in his darkened living room had been such a shock that, at first, he’d not recognized him. Gaston had turned to run, jumping to the conclusion that Halligan had grown some balls and come to arrest him—arrest him for what he’d done to Rhiannon. To her family. Before he’d reached the door, Aristodeus had laughed—like he knew what had happened; knew and didn’t care. “The sheriff won’t trouble you, Gaston,” he’d said. “Oh, he was going to. He’d even started putting together a posse to confront you, but he’s a reasonable man, and an agreement has been reached. I’m sure the same can be said of you. I’m sure you’re a reasonable man, too.” Gaston hadn’t liked the philosopher’s tone. It was amiable enough, but there was something jarring, an implied threat, and a smug certainty that he had Gaston under his thumb.

  Assemble the White Order.

  The words were still clear in his mind, the pounding of his heart just as strong.

  The Templum of the Knot is in danger. The priests need you. Shader needs you.

  He couldn’t face Shader, not now.

  Atonement, Gaston. Atonement and forgiveness. I have glimpsed these things, even though they lie ahead. We must respond to the future; shape it.

  He still wasn’t sure that was possible; his stomach still tightened when he let the memories surface; his eyes still filled with tears; and he still wanted to hurt himself—only that wasn’t the Nousian way.

  Nous will forgive.

  It wasn’t just absolution from Nous that he wanted, though, but it didn’t seem likely Rhiannon could ever forgive him when he couldn’t forgive himself.

  There’d been one more reason to lead the men to Sarum, one more thing Aristodeus had told him that had fired Gaston’s blood: whatever the threat facing Shader, a Sicarii was involved in it; a man as short as a child; white faced and red eyed, he’d said. A man called Shadrak the Unseen: the man who had killed his father. Unseen no bloody longer, Gaston reckoned. Couldn’t exactly miss a face like that.

  “We’re within a mile of the suburbs,” Barek said, riding up alongside, his horse lathered with white sweat. “Imperial troops are stationed along the river between us and the city. They’re letting no one in or out.”

  “Is there a way round?”

  “None that I could see. Think they know we’re coming?”

  Gaston shook his head, wincing at the pain from his swollen nose. The stitches were pulling something terrible; should have got someone other than Justin to sew him up. “How?”

  Barek shrugged. “Well, maybe there’s something else going on. Mawgs, perhaps.”

  “How did they appear? Ready for battle?”

  “Don’t think so. Most were still sleeping, the rest setting fires for breakfast.”

  Gaston was only half-listening. Aristodeus’s voice was foremost in his mind, firm, sure, and prophetic.

  The Templum needs you.

  They couldn’t turn back now. Strong leaders are decisive, Shader always said. Fortune favors the brave.

  “Move the column into a diamond.”

  “We’re not going to attack?” Barek’s mouth hung open. “Shouldn’t we talk to—”

  “Do it!”

  Barek stiffened and rode back down the column, barking orders to the men.

  “Surely he doesn’t think we can just ride up and ask them nicely to let us in,” Justin said, cantering up from behind.

  “What do you think?” Gaston watched over his shoulder as Barek spoke to the men, grasping hands and patting backs. A leader should gain the affection of his men, Shader had said; but where that wasn’t possible he should force their respect.

  “I think what you think, man—boss, or whatever we’re supposed to call you. Grand master? General?”

  “Gaston will do just fine.” At least until he’d had a chance to earn a title. The last thing he needed was for the men to think him a pompous prat. He knew what these blokes admired. Actions, not words, would win their loyalty. Fancy titles would gain him nothing but coarse Sahulian satire.

  Gaston picked at his stitches, trying to think what Shader would have done. He shut his eyes and muttered a swift prayer to Ain. If this was the wrong path, surely there would be a sign, a pang of conscience, some sort of clarity.

  The pounding of approaching hooves snapped him back to alertness, and he became aware he was chewing his left knuckle.

  Barek drew up and saluted. “The men are in formation. We await your order.”

  Do you? Gaston couldn’t bring himself to meet Barek’s gaze. He swiveled in the saddle to take in the men and horses formed up in a tight rhombus, perfectly still, perfectly disciplined. Were they read
y? There was no way of telling. They’d had the training, they knew the drills; what they had to learn next was something that couldn’t be taught. Gaston felt his heartbeat hammering away inside his ribcage, his doubts growing. Without further thought, he did what he always did when shitting himself: turned it into rage.

  “Advance!” he bellowed, spurring the mare into a gallop and not even checking to see if the others were following.

  ***

  Captain Janks was right thankful for the change in the weather. The men were sick of the pissing drizzle, the sullen clouds brooding overhead, gray and unbroken. The sun now blazed nakedly, the sky an empty blue brilliance. And, bloody hell, his mood had perked up with it.

  He stopped in his morning tour of the camp to bend down and scratch at a mosquito bite on his ankle, the biggest pain on this mad-arsed assignment. Crackpot bloody emperor sticking his bloody nose in where it’s not bloody wanted. And who always gets the blame? Not him, that’s for sure. Too busy dreaming up more imaginary threats to the empire or jumping at his own shadow on the palace walls. Poor bastard probably couldn’t even take a shit without shoving his head down the pan to look for assassins.

  The bulk of Janks’s force was camped between the Soulsong Ford and the Old Sarum Road. Archers were stationed in wooden towers at intervals along the bank, right up as far as the Western Ocean, and anybody coming from the east would have to enter open ground before they could approach the city. They’d be mown down before they reached the gates.

  Not that anyone was likely to approach Sarum, Janks thought wryly. The biggest threat was from the poor bleeders fleeing the plague and spreading it beyond the city. Surprisingly few had tried, and those that had were soon persuaded that their chances of survival were greater if they just stayed where they were.

  Looking back over the huddle of tents, watching his troops queuing for their beans and rye bread and then lounging on the still damp grass to eat lazily, he chuckled to himself. Ordinarily, he thought, such complacency would be intolerable, but not today. The men deserved a break after the misery of the rain and a job that made them as popular as fly-strike on mutton.