by A J Dalton
An hour later and Saint Izat was ready to face her visitor across the boundary between their two regions. She sat on her largest body-slave, giving Saint Goza her most coquettish look. ‘My, my, it appears size is everything with you, no? Or are you compensating for something, do you think? Did you have a troubled childhood, dear Goza? Come, you can tell me.’
‘I did not come all this way to suffer your insolence, Izat,’ Saint Goza puffed from his prone position in his wheeled throne.
‘That is immaterial, dear Goza.’ Izat smiled as she folded her smooth hands in her lap. ‘What else did you expect when you have thus far failed to compliment me on my wardrobe? I’ll have you know I’ve gone to quite some effort for you. What is it? Were the canapés I provided not substantial enough? Is that why you’re in a grump?’
Saint Goza ran one of his large hands back through his greasy hair as he struggled for calm. ‘Izat, no more if you please. Yes, you look lovely. You always do. It is a given. Forgive my error in not mentioning it previously. I was overcome by your elegance and was mentally … confused for a while. Etcetera. Now will that not do you, Izat?’
Saint Izat preened herself for a moment, deliberately running a fingertip over one of her eyebrows in case one of the hairs should be out of place. She smiled radiantly at her fellow Saint. ‘There now; that wasn’t so difficult, was it? Goza, the People follow our lead and example, so we should always be mindful of our manners, should we not? How else can we expect them to improve themselves? Well, now that we have observed the formalities and shown ourselves to be paragons of proper protocol, just what is it that I can do for you, pray tell?’
Saint Goza’s eyes swept over the Heroes to either side of them. ‘Perhaps we should talk somewhere more private.’
Saint Izat gave an insouciant shrug. ‘I will simply remove all memory of our meeting from the minds of my People. There are none in my retinue who have not been Drawn by me. Surely you can do the same with your guard, no, Goza?’
‘Err … yes, of course. Very well. What do you know of the affairs of the south?’
Saint Izat touched a finger to her full bottom lip to show she was thinking. ‘Why, absolutely nothing. You?’
Saint Goza grunted. ‘I should have expected you to be coy. It matters not. You should know that there is rampant plague in the south.’
Saint Izat put her hands to her cheeks to express calamity. ‘Surely not! Those poor People. And Azual is such a darling.’
‘Look, I have posted guards on my southern border to turn back any traders and refugees from the south who have come through the central region. I suggest you similarly guard your borders with the southern and central regions. If you do not, there is a risk southerners will travel through your region and into mine through the border between west and north. I do not have enough guards to cover both my southern and western borders effectively, particularly as I permanently have to guard my eastern border against incursions from pagans and barbarians as well. Therefore, I am proposing that we coordinate our forces to ensure the security of our own regions, but also the safety of the wider Empire.’
‘Why, Goza, that sounds like a perfectly splendid idea. You are such a clever fellow, really you are. But of course I would like to coordinate my force with your force. It would be a beautiful thing, the coming together of your strength and my splendour. A marriage to inspire the very cosmos!’ She fluttered her eyelashes. ‘We can start straight away if you like.’
Saint Goza nodded, frowned, shook his head and then rolled his eyes. ‘I’ll take that as a yes, Izat. That is all I wished to agree with you, so unless there is anything else, I’ll be leaving.’
‘Such a short honeymoon? But I hardly noticed it. And now you are leaving? Woe is me.’ Saint Izat waved languorously. ‘But such is the way with marriages. All too quickly the initial bloom of love fades and withers, leaving only thorns and toughness for the once ardent admirer. Still, as long as we can remain civil with each other, then our lives together should not be too onerous. Adieu, cruel Goza, adieu!’
D’Selle watched and listened to Goza through the senses of his Saint, Izat. So, D’Zel was warning him to have nothing to do with the south, was he? D’Zel no doubt considered himself as having the right to insult him in such a manner, now that D’Zel had made a Declaration for that witch D’Shaa.
He couldn’t believe that she’d managed to survive so long, but surely these were her final death throes. As Izat had rightly deduced, the south would not survive as it was for much longer. It would fall to plague, uprising or the reprisals of the Peculiar soon enough. The question then was, who would succeed D’Shaa as organising intellect for the south? Surely the elders would not allow D’Zel to succeed D’Shaa, for through his Declaration for her he would share the shame of D’Shaa’s downfall. Instead, the elders were sure to favour D’Selle himself, weren’t they? Once the south fell, he could no longer be embarrassed by or frowned upon for his public and failed attempt to cause D’Shaa’s immediate downfall.
D’Zel must know all this, so just what gambit was he playing in first making a Declaration for D’Shaa and then warning D’Selle off the south? D’Zel had never been arrogant or overly aggressive, so he could not just be trying to defend the south and the other party to his Declaration. Surely D’Zel did not think the south and D’Shaa could survive, did he? No, ridiculous. D’Zel’s own ambitions would not want to see the south survive, rally and potentially become a threat to his own interests in the future.
What was it then? What was D’Zel’s goal? It just wasn’t possible for D’Zel to become the next organising intellect of the region, given that the south was soon to fall and shame both parties to the Declaration.
Ahhh! Then D’Zel’s goal had to be something else. D’Zel was not looking to become the organising intellect of the south; he was looking for … what?
Ha, ha! Of course. If D’Selle hadn’t been in the waking dream, he would have been tempted to dance with glee, although it would have threatened to snap his limbs. Ha, ha! I have it. There is none as subtle and incisive as me. I know what it is you scheme for, my overambitious D’Zel! It is the boy, the boy! You think he will find and reveal the Geas for you, do you not? Ha, ha! I see you. Truly I am your better, your superior. The playing out of events will show the inevitable truth of it, and that my being, nature and essence are those of the next elder! Foolish, limited D’Zel! I will enjoy your demise even more than D’Shaa’s, for she is inexperienced and a slip of a thing, whereas you are the eldest of our rank and a far greater prize. But my wile and guile are greater. I am the greater!
His mind became momentarily giddy, and then he began to school and discipline himself so that his thoughts would become more ordered. It was vital that he reach the boy.
‘Izat, can you hear me?’
Yes, divinity. Your voice is in my mind, came back his underling’s voice, no primping or posturing now.
‘It is about the boy. He must be brought under my sway. You will keep your border with the south open and put word out to the southerners that the west offers them sanctuary. The boy may be brought to us by the exodus. Do you understand?’
Yes, divinity. I have agents in the south whom I will also task with locating Jillan and bringing him west.
‘If your agents cannot bring the boy from the south, then they must not hesitate to kill him. Do you understand?’
Yes, divinity.
‘Yet time is short and the Peculiar heads into the south. If he finds the boy first, your agents will be powerless to strike at him. Only you might be able to do so, Izat. Therefore, you will enter the southern region immediately and seize or kill the boy. Do you understand?’
The Peculiar is let loose? Izat asked queasily. Then it will be as you say, divinity. Should mad Azual learn that I have entered his region without his permission, he will be within his rights to seek to kill me. Do I have your permission to kill this Saint before he has the chance to make any such attempt, divinity?
�
�You do, Izat,’ D’Selle replied with serene magnanimity. ‘And the more and the longer the mad one suffers before he dies, the better.’
As you will it, divinity, as you will it!
Many of the sky warriors had been for slitting Minister Praxis’s throat right there and then. They’d hit him with quick flicks and punches which, although light, were precisely delivered and immediately had him doubled up and unable to breathe. Then there was a razor-sharp blade pressed against his neck so that he dared not swallow for fear of moving his Adam’s apple and killing himself.
Another chair had been brought for Chief Blackwing and placed in front of the ruins of his previous seat, but the chieftain ignored it and paced angrily back and forth in front of the Minister. The chieftain’s raised hand had halted the knife so that all present would first hear him speak and be forced to recognise the reassertion of his affronted authority.
‘I will have your blood let like some animal’s. A cowardly lowlander like you should not be allowed the honour of dying in combat,’ the pagan fumed, his breath sour with alcohol. ‘Come as a test, have you? From the gods? The gods would not sully their hands with a lying, thieving lowlander. I will not allow you to speak. It offends me that you breathe the sacred air of the upper village. Every moment that you live up here contaminates the air and my people. The words of the crazed one are meaningless at the best of times. He cannot be believed or trusted. Therefore—’
‘And what would have persuaded the headwoman to let him pass in the first place?’ interjected one of the oldest warriors present, a man with hair like snow although there was little else to mark him as being of some age except for a few lines around his eyes. His body was as whip-like as that of all the others.
Chief Blackwing checked himself, the old warrior’s words clearly carrying some weight in the hall. ‘Yes, Slavin, a right question. All know she indulges the crazed one too much, and that he is not incapable of tricking her. If the lowlander is a test for us, the test must be whether we are foolish enough to allow him to speak. Are we so full of self-doubt that we would even need to hear him?’
‘Or are we so full of self-doubt that we would fear his words?’ Slavin responded evenly, eliciting a few nods from others present.
The chieftain glared at the warrior and a bristling Braggar came to his father’s side. Apparently thrown by his son’s move and how it made him look in need of support, Chief Blackwing tried to wave Braggar away. ‘No, Slavin. None of the upper village knows fear of words or lowlanders. We are the favoured of Wayfar and all need fear us! The lowlander will cry for mercy and puke that fear over us so that it is plain for all to see. Then he will be made an instant sacrifice to Wayfar.’
Slavin nodded slightly and turned his eyes expectantly towards the Minister. Chief Blackwing had no choice but to signal to the warrior holding the knife to the Minister’s neck to lower his weapon.
‘Speak, snivelling lowlander,’ commanded Chief Blackwing.
What indignities, degradation and deprivation I have suffered for my faith. None of the Saints in the holy book suffered one whit as much as me. I will be the greatest of the Saints, the most holy and the most revered. I will be a shining example to every student in every town of the Empire, Minister Praxis told himself. Yet first I must undo the Chaos that ensnares these pagans. I must do whatever is required to see to their ultimate Salvation, whether they come through that Salvation alive or not. I must find a way to lie and manipulate, although it is against the fundamental integrity and honesty of my nature. Ah, none have been so tortured by the world as I! The hardest and coldest of warriors would cry were they but to hear the tale of my plight and woe. Whole nations would collapse. The earth would crumble and fall into the sea. The skies would fall. The cosmos itself will tremble with pity when it learns of what I withstand here. I am the living will of the Saviours. I am the holy book made flesh. Nothing I say, do or describe can be wrong.
From where he knelt, the Minister met the fat pagan’s eye. He did not allow his voice to shake as he said, ‘I have come for revenge on the lowlands, Chief Blackwing!’
The Chief peered blearily at the Minister, as if seeing him for the first time and not quite sure what to make of him. Warriors muttered to themselves and each other.
‘Revenge because I was exiled by my own ignorant and jealous people!’ the Minister bit, finding that he did not need to fake his anger. It’s not that far from the truth, after all. ‘I can lead your warriors to the town of Godsend and show them how to take it from the Empire. Then you will have some revenge for how the Empire originally took the lowlands from you.’
The murmurings among the warriors became louder. Chief Blackwing swayed back a step and his eyes went round the hall. His head swung back to the Minister and he curled his top lip. ‘You would turn on your own people? You would expect us to agree to be led by such a creature? The people of the mountains are not as lowly as your own kind. You sicken me. I have heard enough.’
The chieftain looked towards the warrior with the bared blade.
‘It is not I who is cowardly, Chief Blackwing,’ the Minister said quickly. ‘It is not I who would hide from dying in combat. I would not be content with growing fat and old while my enemy made free with my lands and cattle. And what are you chief of anyway? A few barren rocks? Do those rocks really need your protection?’
The warrior with the knife hesitated as discontent and mocking laughter were heard among the warriors. Braggar bumped the warrior and the man dropped his knife. The eyes of the chief’s son were alive with emotion, but whether with anger or something else, the Minister could not tell. The air was thick with the threat of violence. Jostling began among the warriors and a number pushed forward. Someone fell to the floor with a curse.
With a roar, Chief Blackwing bulled his way forward. ‘Wayfar guide us!’ he yelled in the middle of the crowd, raising his arms high and spreading the colourful underside of his winged cape wide. ‘We pray to you, holy Wayfar!’ Half of the warriors in the hall went to their knees and those who remained standing looked around uncertainly. ‘We are not proud when we stand or kneel before you.’ The chieftain’s voice echoed back from the high roof space. Half of those standing now lowered their heads and began to pray silently. The rest looked to Slavin or Braggar, but it was clear the chieftain had stolen the momentum. ‘We are not proud when we ask for the gift of your wisdom. We will listen to the high winds through day and night before raising a blade in your name!’
Chief Blackwing stared straight at Slavin as he spoke, nodding at him meaningfully until the snow-haired warrior finally capitulated and returned a resigned nod.
‘It is well that we seek his divine wisdom now. Surely we have just passed through the first part of his test and not been found wanting. Take the lowlander to the place of high meditation, for he will spend the day and night there so that he too may be tested. You two, take him. Now!’
Two wiry warriors caught the Minister under his armpits and hauled him to his feet. They dragged him out of the hall, shaking or cuffing him whenever he tried to ask anything, and up a slippery shale path. At the edge of an overhanging precipice was a small stone shelter. They led him inside and secured a rope around his waist.
‘Down there!’ one of them ordered curtly.
‘Saviours preserve me, what unholy place is this! A pagan garderobe! It is the stench of the Chaos itself!’
‘Move, lowlander,’ coughed the other and showed a length of his knife. ‘Down the hole!’
The Minister approached the hole in the floor where the pagans of the upper village disposed of their waste. The giddy drop below made his stomach lurch and he tried to back away, but the pagan devils were right behind him, pushing him forward, wrestling him down the hole.
He screamed and screamed until his lungs gave out. Then he was being lowered as the wind taunted and twisted him. He was a thousand feet high! Tears of terror froze on his cheeks.
His feet made contact with a pillar of rock that ro
se hundreds of feet from the slope of the mountain and ended a dozen or so feet below the overhang and garderobe. The pillar had a flattish top about four feet across, and it was onto this that the Minister was deposited. The rope dropped down, lashing his head and left shoulder as it came. He just about caught it without overbalancing.
He was stranded in the void. The wind nudged him and he was convinced he was falling. He saw the detail of the valley floor as it rushed up towards him. The sky sailed past him. Don’t look at the clouds! They’re moving and will take your balance! Don’t look down! Close your eyes. No, don’t! The pillar’s swaying in the wind.
‘Holy Saint Azual preserve me! Master, where are you? Help me!’
Praxis, you must endure. You must persevere, replied a voice from everywhere and nowhere, but he did not know if it was the Saint or just his own mind speaking out loud.
He shuffled his feet back under his bottom and then further back until he could lower himself forward flat on his stomach. He now presented less of a target for the wind at least.
Liquid spattered down on him from above and the two pagans laughed evilly.
‘… until Bess made the mistake of fluttering her eyelashes at Jed. Your mother was not about to let anything even get started, so it came as no surprise to any of us when Bess suddenly broke out in an ugly rash all over her face and had a terrible itch in all the wrong places. Well, none of the men of New Sanctuary wanted to know then, did they, lest they catch something? Bess started screaming that your mother was a witch and the elders became right discomfited, for it’s one thing within the Empire for a woman to know herbs and remedies, but quite another for her to conjure with spells and curses. Well, next thing you know, Bess loses her voice so that she can’t be complaining no more and your mother says to her for all to hear, “And you’ll be losing a lot more than that, Brazen Bess, if you don’t take yourself and your wickedness off to some other town. Next time, you’d better think twice before trying to turn the eyes and mind of a good man like my Jedadiah, you hear? Now be off with you, for my patience and the indulgence of this town are all used up.” And Brazen Bess ran out of the town’s gates and was never heard from again!’