by A J Dalton
‘Hello, Samnir, it’s me again, Hella,’ she said gently. ‘How are you today? I hope it wasn’t too cold last night. Are the blankets I brought you warm enough? Does the lean-to keep most of the wind out?’
Samnir didn’t respond. She waited. After a minute his red eyes ran and he managed an autonomic blink.
‘That’s good. Papa got back from Saviours’ Paradise last night. Guess what!’ She lowered her voice and whispered excitedly: ‘He saw Jillan! Spoke to him! The Heroes and the Saint chased him, but he escaped. Isn’t that incredible?’
A lone bird twittered once or twice and then gave up. A cold breeze pulled at their hair. Hella turned her face away while Samnir remained as he was.
‘Anyway, there’s me going on when you’re probably hungry. Broth again, I’m afraid. Sorry, but it seems to be the only thing you like.’
She took the lid off the small brown-glazed pot she’d brought with her and dipped a small wooden spoon into the thick contents.
‘Smells good, huh? I found some wild garlic, so it should be flavour-some.’
She gently pushed Samnir’s head back and then pulled on his chin so that his mouth opened. She checked the broth wasn’t too hot and then spooned some between his lips. After several spoonfuls, the gentle pressure of the food caused his body to swallow.
‘That’s good,’ she said, as always. ‘Want some more? Here you go.’
‘How is he?’ asked a quiet voice.
Hella gasped and came to her feet, hiding the spoon behind her back as she whirled round. Haal stood watching her from a dozen or so yards away. His eyes remained on her for a few moments and then fixed on Samnir, who still sat with his head back, looking at the sky.
‘What do you want?’ she demanded scornfully. ‘What are you doing, spying on people?’
His eyes went to his feet. ‘Didn’t mean to spy,’ he mumbled. ‘I was just passing is all.’
‘Going to go tell on me, are you, Haal Corinson?’ she accused, hands going to hips. ‘Going to tell your father and all the other elders, are you? I hen’t done anything wrong. Just showing some care for a neighbour is all.’
Haal nodded, his cheeks flushing. ‘You’re doing it for him, aren’t you?’
He meant Jillan, but she refused to be embarrassed, even though heat was also coming to her cheeks. ‘I en’t! And what’s it to you even if I was? Anyway, what are you doing just passing at this time of the morning? Does Elder Corin know you’ve sneaked out of bed? You’ll be in a heap of trouble if you do anything as stupid as tell him you saw me here.’
He looked at her with a strange expression on his face that brought her up short.
‘What is it then? What’s wrong, Haal?’
‘Pa’s sick, Hella. Frightful sick! Ma’s sent me to fetch the physicker.’
‘Is it … the … you know?’
He refused to nod in case that would make it true. His eyes glistened and he bit at his lip worriedly. ‘Don’t know. None of the rest of us has got it. Ma said it’s best not to tell anyone ’bout it lest it cause panic and make people not want to help us. Don’t tell anyone, will you? I won’t tell about Samnir, promise.’
She didn’t want to feel sorry for him. He was stupid, boasted about how important his father was all the time and pushed the other kids around because he was bigger and better fed than they were. She knew he liked her, but she didn’t want him to. She strongly suspected he’d always picked on Jillan because she liked Jillan and not him. It only made her dislike him even more. It had almost made her glad when Haal’s friend Karl had died, not that she was ever glad when someone or something died. It almost made her glad Elder Corin was ill. She didn’t want to feel sorry for Haal, because it felt like she was betraying Jillan. But she did anyway. Just like she felt sorry for Samnir, even though he was a blasphemer and a traitor to the Empire. Why were things so difficult?
She sighed. ‘Course I won’t tell. My father’s just back from Saviours’ Paradise. If there’s anything the physicker needs, maybe my father can help. But I’m sure your pa will be okay. You know what it’s like: the cold weather always brings its share of shakes and shivers, and it’s colder this year than most.’
‘You think?’ Haal asked with forced optimism. Then his face fell. ‘They’re saying it’s the cold wind that carries the corruption of the Chaos out of the mountains. They say that the plague in Godsend is because the Chaos has got stronger of late, and the People of the town need punishing if they’re to mend their ways. The Saint came because we needed punishing.’
She nearly became angry with him again, but knew it wasn’t his fault he wasn’t as smart as everyone else. ‘And did your pa need punishing?’
He frowned. ‘No.’
‘Well, there are you are then!’
He nodded slowly, looking confused.
‘It shows it’s not the Chaos, Haal. It shows it’s just people saying things. It’s just a plague is all, nothing to do with the Chaos, nothing to do with people being punished or people having done anything bad. See?’
He nodded more vigorously. ‘Yes, yes! Thanks, Hella. I owe you one. If you ever need …’ He tailed off.
She nodded her own understanding. ‘Course. Thanks. I hope your pa gets well soon, Haal.’
He’d heard a tale once of an old man who had been buried alive. Of course, everyone had thought him dead when in fact he’d probably only been asleep. Feeble as he’d been, however, none had been able to feel the whisper of any breath escaping his mouth or nostrils or the flutter of any pulse in his wrist when checking to see if he’d passed on. It being a hot summer, and the old man’s sons being eager for their inheritance, the man had been hastily placed in his coffin and the lid promptly nailed down. The funeral service had taken place that very same day with no one the wiser.
It was only when the gravedigger had all but finished filling in the grave that evening, when everyone else had gone home, that the muffled cries for help from the trapped man were heard. At first the gravedigger thought himself haunted and ran back to the town to find an inn, some bright company and strong drink to calm his nerves. Once he had himself under control, his more rational side began to assert itself and caused him to venture back to the graveyard.
All was quiet as he began to dig out the grave once more. ‘Hellooo!’ he shouted whenever he needed to rest in between his bouts of increasingly frantic digging. There was no word of reply.
The gravedigger spared no effort as he worked down to the coffin and feverishly levered open the lid. Blank eyes stared back at him accusingly. The old man’s clawed hands were raised and bloodied from where he’d been trying to fight his way free. The inside of the coffin lid bore scratch marks and one torn fingernail from his struggles. The gravedigger stood for a moment and then gently replaced the lid. He’d filled the grave and returned to the inn, but the company was no longer bright enough to lift the shadows from his brows nor the drink strong enough, nor in sufficient quantity, to calm his nerves.
Samnir felt like the old man from the tale, except that rather than being trapped in a coffin, he was trapped in his own body. His mind tried to claw its way free but it was becoming weaker and weaker. Perhaps more like a stone, which no one knows has awareness, stuck at the bottom of a well. One of the people might throw a bucket in and it might land near him, but he lacked the wherewithal to climb into it.
‘Hello, Samnir, it’s me again, Hella. How are you today? I hope it wasn’t too cold last night. Are the blankets I brought you warm enough? Does the lean-to keep most of the wind out?’
I hardly feel the cold or the wind, child. I hardly feel anything. You trouble yourself for nothing. Perhaps it’s best if you leave me be. Be like the gravedigger and just gently replace the lid.
‘That’s good. Papa got back from Saviours’ Paradise last night. Guess what! He saw Jillan! Spoke to him! The Heroes and the Saint chased him, but he escaped. Isn’t that incredible?’
Ha! Jillan! He outwitted the Saint, eh? Heh, heh. It�
��s good that I have not given up my life for nothing.
Even if Jillan had been captured, punished and Drawn, Samnir still wouldn’t have regretted trying to help him. He’d regretted just about everything else in his life, but not this one act. He’d given Jillan a chance at the life he had himself given up far too easily when young. He’d been a different person back then, of course, proud and repentant of nothing. He’d never erred in his life and owed nothing to anyone. If anything, the People owed him for the hard work he did protecting them as a Hero and his fair-mindedness when settling disputes. Yet the People never showed him gratitude and caused him nothing but trouble with their petty and selfish ways. He’d had to become far harder and start knocking heads together before they started to understand what civilised behaviour was all about and that they needed to obey the rules for their own good. He’d quickly earned a reputation as an uncompromising and ambitious individual. He’d been sent to the Great Temple for officer training and then out into the deserts of the eastern region to pit his wits against the savage pagans and barbarians who still resisted the Empire. Years of slaughter had followed. He’d turned the white and gold sands of the region red. He’d poisoned the blue and green waters of every oasis he could find and burned every tree and bush. Yet it hadn’t been enough, and nothing had really changed in the eastern region, despite his best efforts. No, that wasn’t true. Nothing had really changed except himself. He’d become frustrated and dissatisfied, manic even, as if he was searching for something he couldn’t find. The more brutal, bloodthirsty and successful as a soldier of the Empire he’d become, the worse the black moods became. His superiors had begun to look at him with fear, distaste and horror in their eyes. None of his superiors were weak men, either, but it was clear that in their eyes he’d gone wrong and become the sort of monster they were meant to be fighting against. The only one of them who’d treated him differently was General Thormodius, whose reaction was the worst of all, for his gaze had held pity. It was the General who’d decided Samnir had served in the east long enough and he should return to the Great Temple. Samnir had been furious and railed against the General, who’d then had no choice but to have his officer subdued and removed from the east in chains.
Samnir had then begun long years of service within the labyrinthine Great Temple. The other Heroes there were always courteous when dealing with him, but none had ever offered him friendship. And his black moods hadn’t disappeared either; if anything they’d become worse without the outlet of battle that he’d had in the east. He’d become withdrawn and difficult and then started to say out loud whatever came into his head, whether there was anyone around to hear him or not. He’d uttered a good number of blasphemies and battered most of his comrades in fights before he was finally put out of the Great Temple.
He’d been sent further and further from the sacred heart of the Empire, until he’d ended up serving Saint Azual, whom they called the mad Saint because of what had happened at New Sanctuary. Yet even the Saint had considered Samnir too rabid to be of use, and sent him to Godsend, where he’d begun his lonely vigil on the southern gate. He wasn’t exactly sure what he watched for, but the isolation had slowly begun to deaden his moods and give him a sort of peace. And then the boy had come, the boy he’d once been, the boy who was precisely the opposite of the monster Samnir had become.
‘Anyway, there’s me going on when you’re probably hungry. Broth again, I’m afraid. Sorry, but it seems to be the only thing you like. Smells good, huh? I found some wild garlic, so it should be flavour-some.’
I can’t smell or taste it, child. In many ways I don’t want it, because it keeps me alive in this coffin. Can’t you just leave me be? I know it might be ungrateful of me, but you’re only prolonging my suffering. Bless you, child, for you cannot know. You think all life is sacred, don’t you, that it should be preserved at all costs? I’m sorry, but it’s not. It saddens me that you will all too quickly grow up to find that out, if the plague spares you that long. If you catch the illness, please bring it to me so that I will finally be free. And perhaps it would be for the best for you if you caught it, child, as then your innocence will not be cruelly destroyed by this life and you will not be turned into any sort of monster.
Saint Izat watched and listened to the girl through the soldier Samnir, whom Izat had Drawn to the Saviours decades before. The Saint congratulated herself on all the plotting and hard work she’d originally done to turn the young Samnir into the driven and merciless man who would first get selected by the Great Temple and then be sent out east. It had been tricky and Izat had had to use a number of valuable resources to ensure that Samnir had survived his desert tour of duty and had been recalled to the Great Temple. After that, it had been relatively easy to see to it that Samnir was sent into the rival southern region. Izat had been delighted when she’d been able to spy directly on Azual and help bring about the destruction of New Sanctuary. Such a joy to watch Azual descend into madness and commit such slaughter. Just a pity Azual had thus far survived the episode.
Once Samnir had been banished from Hyvan’s Cross Izat had largely lost interest in the soldier and given him little further thought until the night of the incident with Jillan. Izat had had to use every shred of magical power at her disposal to reach from her western region all the way to Godsend to convince Samnir’s mind that he should help the boy escape, but now look at how the effort was repaying her! Not only was the boy still at large and causing Azual no end of trouble, but it now seemed some sort of plague had also resulted – unless it was just happy coincidence – so that traders from other regions were now reluctant to deal with the south. The south’s economy was beginning to collapse. Soon the People would begin to complain that Azual was not doing enough to help them, and then Azual would be facing a proper uprising, particularly if Izat were to use her other resources in the south judiciously. Whether Azual managed to quell the uprising or not, the blessed Saviours would not forgive him for having allowed the instability to begin in the first place. The Saviours would look for another Saint to oversee the south, and there was none better suited than Izat, whose own region had always been peaceful and prosperous. Saint Dionan in the east always had his hands full with the pagan and barbarian tribes of the desert, and Saint Goza in the north was too far removed and indolent to be able to rule the two regions at once. There were other lesser Saints scattered across the Empire, to be sure, but none could be a serious challenge to Izat.
Soon both west and south would be hers. Then she would turn her attention elsewhere. She’d always fancied having a sun-metal mine, for the wealth and power it could bring were considerable.
Something caught her attention. What was this? She rolled the naked youths off her, her interest in them long gone. They were too delirious to protest and probably would not recover from being Drawn for several days, some perhaps never. The orgasmic bliss of being Drawn by her was too much for some, but for those who survived the heady passion it was something they would remember and lust after for the rest of their lives. It was her gift to them, not that she didn’t take pleasure from it herself, but in recent centuries it had become, well, a bit monotonous, a bit limited. She’d experimented extensively, of course, but there was only so much that could be done to and with the physical forms of the People. That was why she’d become more and more voracious in terms of trade and politics, always looking to extend her dominion so that she might uncover something new, always looking to have more so that she could delight in new senses and experiences.
She wrapped a robe around her svelte golden figure just as a young body-slave hurtled in to prostrate himself before the Saint. From the way the boy was breathing it appeared he had been running, which was most unseemly, although it had brought an attractive blush to the boy’s cheeks.
‘What is it, Julian?’ Izat yawned and gracefully raised a manicured hand to her mouth. She preferred to be surrounded by those who had not been Drawn, because she found it titillating to be served by those w
ho still had some mystery about them.
‘Resplendent one, Saint Goza of the north approaches the border.’
Saint Izat almost lost her famous poise and bearing. ‘What did you say?’
‘Resplendent one, Saint—’
‘Yes, Julian, dear, that was rhetorical. But this is unprecedented. No other Saint has entered this region since, well, ever! How dare he do so without my invitation! I haven’t had time to bathe, do my hair or anything. Julian, have water drawn for me immediately and my finest robes laid out. The dark blue would be best, don’t you think? How has he even come so far? I didn’t think that stinking gutbucket could even walk any more. I must be sure to stay downwind of him, eh, Julian? I’d hate to have to hold my nose the whole time.’
‘Resplendent one, Saint Goza comes in a wheeled throne larger than any wagon and it is drawn by six horses.’
‘Does he indeed? And how many men does he have with him?’
‘Fifty, resplendent one.’
‘Very good. Tell Captain Tyrius to have my prettiest thousand lined up on our side with bows that are both decorative and lethal. Should one person set foot in this region without my permission, even if it is Saint Goza, sweet Tyrius is to fire, even though it is sure to create quite a mess. Do you understand, dearest Julian?’
‘As well as I may, resplendent one.’
‘Very good. Then run along while I decide whether to go with curls or ringlets. Curls have more gravitas, while ringlets more artistry. Oh dear, let’s go with wavy hair instead. Far more nonchalant, far less threatened.’