The Broken World Book One - Children of Another God

by T C Southwell

  A pod of his sleek grey brothers and sisters joined him with glad cries and smiling mouths, dark liquid eyes sparkling with their innate joy. They gambolled in the waves, rubbed smooth skins and flippers, and blew puffs of spray before diving back into the depths. They sought out the whales and joined them as the new mother nudged her calf to the air, the big bulls watchful for predators amid the birth blood. Two older bulls hung head down and sang their piercing, poignant song of welcome to the new member of their pod.

  Chanter headed back towards the ship, followed by the playful dolphins. As the first rosy streaks of dawn lighted the sky, he decided it was time to quit Shissar’s safety and return to the emptiness of Ashmar. The ship sailed silhouetted against the golden dawn as he made his final ascent and leapt high. The Power of Ashmar transformed him, and he clawed his way into the wind with long, fragile wings. Buffeted by the cold air, he sailed high, looking down at the sleek grey shapes that frolicked in the waves. With a tilt of his wings, he let the wind sweep him to the ship, there to settle on the mast top and test the ship’s Dolana. A few sleepy sailors emerged to stretch and yawn as the cook prepared breakfast on deck.

  Talsy emerged, clutching her coat close against the wind, and took a bowl of steaming porridge before vanishing below again. Satisfied that she was well, Chanter tucked up a foot and puffed out his feathers. He pondered the distant Rashkar, only a few hours away by air. Perhaps he should go ahead and see what he could find out before Talsy arrived. She seemed safe, and surely the sailors had no reason to harm her. This close to his goal, the urge to find the boy, Arrin, was strong. He could be back at the ship by dusk. Talsy would be unguarded for just a few hours. Making his decision, he spread his wings and let the wind sweep him away.

  Chanter flew low over the wave tops, swooping through deep troughs between the swells where the air was easier to fly. The sun was only a halfway to its zenith when Rashkar came into sight.

  The great city sprawled for miles up and down the coast, far larger than Jishan, one of the largest Chanter had seen. Unlike Jishan, Rashkar gleamed white in the sun, a city of whitewashed stone and wood. Two long breakwaters calmed the harbour and banned the ocean swells. Here ships lay at anchor or docked beside the wharf, boats swimming between them with flashing oars. He wheeled above the city, studying the centre of it, where straight roads intersected between tall buildings with grey-tiled roofs. On the outskirts, the roads became warped into a maze amongst smaller dwellings, losing the orderly design of its original builders.

  Finding the barracks was easy enough. Dusty parade grounds and sprawling tent towns bordered the cluster of long, low buildings. He floated down to perch on a rooftop, surveying the men below. Hundreds marched around in the dust, others trained in groups with slashing swords and parrying shields. Many more lived in the tents and rested in the barracks. How was he to find one man amongst so many? The task seemed impossible, for none of his Powers would aid him in this endeavour.

  Pondering the problem, he watched the men. He could not search for red hair; the men wore helmets and looked alike. He would have to ask Talsy to help as part of her clan bond. All she had to do was enquire as to the whereabouts of young Arrin. Once he had the answer, he could do the rest himself. Perhaps he would have to grant a Wish in return, but Talsy would not ask for much.

  As he was about to spread his wings once more, a nearby conversation caught his ear, and he turned his head to listen. Two officers paused in their strolling below, brought to a halt by the serious nature of their topic.

  “How many physicians have seen the Prince?”

  “Too many, if you ask me.”

  From Chanter’s vantage, only the top of the soldiers’ helmets were visible.

  The first man nodded. “It seems certain he’ll die, then?”

  The second officer replied, “The King is in despair, and it will augur badly for the future, since the Queen can have no more children.”

  “Indeed. The kingdom shall have no heir.”

  The first officer strolled onwards again. “Unless the King casts off Merrilin, but he is sadly reluctant to do so.”

  Chanter considered the information. A stroke of luck, it seemed, had fallen across his path. Spreading his wings, he flew towards the distant palace in the heart of the city. King Garsh’s citadel rose above humbler buildings, fluted marble pillars supporting its high domed roof. Manicured gardens surrounded it, and mighty pillared buildings flanked them. A sprawl of servants’ quarters and stables bordered these.

  The Mujar drifted down to alight upon a tree. Many gulls waited there, making his presence invisible. To find the King in the palace would be a daunting task, although not as impossible as finding the boy in the barracks. At least he would be able recognise the King.

  Chanter found out what the gulls waited for when a young girl in a frilly yellow dress came out and threw bread to them. The gulls swooped and caught it in mid-air, making her giggle. When she left, so did the gulls, and Chanter had to wait alone as the sun traversed the sky. Waiting never bothered Mujar, since there was so much to see and hear, from the warbling of garden birds to the sap rising in the trees. People strolled past below, garishly dressed courtiers and their ladies, army officers with their advisors and scribes. Servants hurried by on errands, gardeners pushed barrows of leaves and manure. A giggling gaggle of maids came to cut roses for the palace, and a pair of young lovers met under a spreading tree.

  The sun sank when a lone man walked with bowed head through the garden, his hands clasped behind his back. A simple dark blue velvet coat trimmed with gold embroidery and a crisp white shirt with lacy sleeves clad his burly torso, his fawn leggings tucked into black boots. The thin gold band that encircled his brow caught Chanter’s eyes. Flaxen hair hung in a plait down the King’s back, and a darker, curly beard hid his chin. Frowns had lined his brutal visage, and cold green eyes glittered under shaggy brows. Although middle-aged, King Garsh retained a well-muscled figure.

  Chanter glided down to land on the path ahead of the King, who stopped to frown at him. Chanter transformed with a rush of Ashmar, and the King stepped back, his eyes widening, then his brows drew together in an even deeper scowl.

  “Mujar!”

  Chanter held out a hand, palm up. “No harm.”

  “What do you want, beggar?”

  “I ask a favour.”

  King Garsh sneered, “Why should I grant you a favour?”

  “Is the King of Rashkar versed in the ways of Mujar?”

  The King snorted. “I care nothing for your kind.”

  “You have an advisor who is?”

  “I have many advisors, but I don’t need one to tell me how to deal with a damned Mujar!”

  Chanter shook his head. “You do.”

  Garsh eyed Chanter and fiddled with his lacy sleeves, clearly torn, then curiosity got the better of him and he turned to bellow a name at the palace. A tense minute passed before a tall, slender man in a severe black suit emerged, with two guards. The soldiers started to draw their swords, and Chanter prepared to invoke Ashmar. The advisor grabbed the soldiers’ sleeves.

  “No! Don’t threaten him! He’s no danger to the King; he’s Mujar!”

  Chanter relaxed as the guards released their weapons. The advisor, a clean-shaven young man with dark hair and brown eyes, passably handsome but for a prominent nose, persuaded them to stay where they were and came forward alone. The King turned to him as he arrived beside his monarch, and the advisor faced Chanter, holding out a hand, palm up.

  “No harm.”

  Chanter nodded.

  King Garsh glared at his advisor. “Yusan, this upstart Mujar scum has the effrontery to come into my garden and beg me for a favour.”

  “Grant it, Your Majesty,” Yusan advised.

  “What?” The King looked incensed. “Why should I do anything for him?”

  Yusan turned to him. “Majesty, you pay me to advise you, and I beg you to listen to me. All will be clear as soon as you grant
his favour.”

  “But why the hell should I?”

  “Please, Majesty, just do it.”

  King Garsh shook his head like an angry dire bear. “Yusan -”

  “Majesty, please! You’ll thank me for this if you do it. If you’re displeased with the outcome, strike off my head, but grant the Mujar’s wish before he grows tired of waiting and leaves.”

  King Garsh studied his advisor’s desperate face, his brows rising. “Very well, but if this displeases me, I shall indeed have your head.”

  Yusan nodded, bowing.

  The King glared at Chanter. “What do you want?”

  Chanter bent one knee, raised his arms and stretched them out. Spreading his hands in a graceful gesture, he bowed his head. “I ask for the life of one boy from the King’s army, named Arrin Torquil.”

  Garsh’s scowl deepened. It seemed to be the only expression he was capable of, for it hardly ever left his face. “His life? You want him killed?”

  Yusan plucked at his sleeve. “No, Sire, I think he wants to take the boy away. Say yes, I beg you.”

  Garsh threw Yusan an angry look, then turned back to Chanter, who remained in his poised position. “Very well.”

  Yusan said, “Granted, Mujar.”

  Chanter straightened and smiled. “Gratitude.”

  “Wish.”

  “Wish,” Chanter allowed.

  “The Prince is mortally ill. Save him.”

  The Mujar nodded. “Granted.”

  King shook his head. “I’ll not let him near my son!”

  Yusan said, “Sire, he can save Prince Mystar. It’s his only hope!”

  “I’m not letting a damned Mujar lay his dirty hands on my son!”

  “My King, the boy won’t live past sunset. The doctors have said so. They can do nothing more for him. He’s dying! Your kingdom will be without an heir. You’ll be forced to cast off Merrilin and take another wife, lest your line be lost and your sister’s son inherit.”

  Garsh hesitated, glaring at his advisor and Chanter in turn. “You’re sure of this, Yusan?”

  “Yes, Sire. Mujar can do anything, as you know. He has granted a Wish in return for the boy. He will cure the Prince, I swear.” The King still appeared irresolute, and Yusan cried, “Majesty, your son will die!”

  Garsh turned and marched up the path. Yusan hurried after the King, plucking at his sleeve again. “Sire, you must give the order.”

  “What order?”

  “To release the boy.” Yusan gestured towards Chanter.

  Garsh looked around. “Oh. Where do you want the boy?”

  Chanter replied, “Release him and tell him to return to his father.”

  “See to it,” the King snapped at the guards, one of whom trotted off.

  Satisfied, Chanter followed when Garsh set off towards the palace again. Within the structure, gleaming black marble floors stretched away between fluted grey columns that held up the domed crystal roof. Bold murals depicting hunting or battle scenes covered many walls, and statues stood in frozen poses within carved niches lined with white marble. Their footsteps rang on polished floors, and servants bowed as the King strode past.

  Garsh and his advisor glanced back often, to ensure Chanter followed. They seemed dubious that he would. The Mujar received many stares from the servants and guards, most hostile and a few puzzled. Garsh traversed a corridor, ascended a sweeping flight of stairs, and stalked along another corridor. Halfway along it, he entered a gloomy room lighted by candles and lamps, where a score of women wept around a four-poster bed. Two white-robed, grey-bearded men looked around, their faces solemn. Chanter hated the confined chamber with its air of doom and sickness.

  “Out!” King Garsh bellowed, and all heads jerked around. “All of you, now!”

  The ladies rose and hurried out, lifting their skirts and sniffling; the doctors followed at a more dignified gait. A young, tear-stained woman remained, a raven-haired beauty who raised melting brown eyes to the King’s harsh countenance. His eyes softened as they rested upon her pale face.

  “You may stay, Merrilin.”

  The Queen looked at Chanter, who stood in the shadows. “Who’s this?”

  Garsh replied, “He’s come to save Mystar. He’s Mujar.”

  Merrilin’s eyes widened, and she raised a hand to her mouth. Yusan went to the bedside and beckoned to Chanter. The Queen retreated from the sweep of his eyes as he approached the bed to look down at the frail form lost in its silken vastness. The boy was only about five years old, and the greyness of death already hung about him. Prince Mystar was on the verge of passing away; only a few minutes, maybe half an hour, remained.

  Chanter turned to Yusan. “Bring me a bath full of water.”

  The advisor trotted to the door and bellowed into the corridor, where doubtless droves of the curious had gathered. Chanter went over to the floor-length blue velvet curtains and opened them, letting in a flood of light and revealing a pair of glass-paned balcony doors. He pushed them open and let in blessed fresh air, which guttered most of the candles. Garsh opened his mouth to protest and stifled it with an obvious effort, glaring at the Mujar. Chanter looked the dark-haired boy again, then at Yusan.

  “Hurry.”

  King Garsh strode to the door and yanked it open, roaring at the sea of faces that clogged the corridor, “Get me that bath now, or I’ll have you all whipped!”

  The crowd parted to reveal two sweaty men carrying a metal tub. A dozen more hands joined the task, and the tub’s progress speeded up to almost a run, water slopping. They galloped towards the bed when one man slipped and fell, taking the rest of them, and the tub, with him. Water splashed over the floor, found a dozen exits and vanished down them, leaving only a thin film behind. The King grabbed two men and beat their heads together, bellowing like an enraged bull. Yusan went white and the Queen burst into tears. Chanter knew no time remained. By the time Garsh had finished beating his servants, the boy would be dead.

  The Mujar scooped up the young Prince and went onto the balcony. Garsh released his victims and shouted, and the Queen shrieked. Chanter looked down at the gardens, where a fountain sprinkled a shallow pond with crystal droplets. The King lunged for him and slipped as Yusan tackled him around the knees, effectively halting his attack.

  Chanter summoned Shissar. The air swelled, filling with mist and the faint crashing of waves, the gurgle of running water and the hiss of falling rain. The water in the pond surged at his command, then rose in a glittering column that weaved towards the balcony. It cascaded over the Prince, drenched him and flooded into the room. Chanter bent his head over the dying child as he used the Power of Shissar to drive the illness from the fragile boy, letting the water wash it away with cool, tingling sweetness. As the Shissar poured over him, the Prince’s cheeks grew pink. When the last of the water ran off onto the floor, the boy knuckled his eyes and blinked at his saviour.

  Garsh thumped Yusan, who clung to the King’s legs, preventing him from regaining his feet. The Prince, finding himself in a stranger’s arms, wailed. Merrilin hastened towards the Mujar with a joyful smile, her gaze riveted to her son. She stopped a few steps away, meeting Chanter’s eyes. He held out the boy, and she snatched him away, clasping him to her bosom.

  Yusan released the King, who climbed to his feet to find his wife holding the lustily yelling Prince. He went to her and took the boy, stroked his hair and wiped water from his cheeks. The Prince howled louder, his face mottling. Merrilin wept, and Garsh bent his head, clearly struggling to quell his tears.

  From the safety of the doorway, courtiers and servants looked on with broad smiles, thumping each other on the back. Yusan rose to his feet with a groan, but grinned. The two doctors pushed their way in and approached the Crown Prince, whose yells had given way to sniffles, his blue eyes fixed on the Mujar. No one needed the physicians’ verdict to know Mystar was healed. The boy made it clear by slapping away their hands and peevishly demanding a plate of food. Yusan was the only per
son who looked at the Mujar who stood by the balcony doors.

  Chanter inclined his head. “Wish fulfilled.”

  “Would you like comforts?” Yusan enquired.

  Although tempted, Chanter frowned. Something niggled him. Something was wrong. He studied the tableau, but could not fault it. Garsh handed the whining, wriggling boy back to his mother and regarded the Mujar with flat, unreadable eyes. He nodded and echoed Yusan’s offer, but Chanter turned away, went to the balcony and gazed out. Stars twinkled in the darkening sky.

  Garsh scowled and opened his mouth to comment on the Mujar’s rudeness, but Yusan gripped his arm to forestall him.

  “Leave him, Sire. Mujar are a strange race.”

  The King grunted and gazed at his son. Several maids stripped Mystar of his wet nightshirt and wrapped him in blankets, towelling his hair while he sat on the bed. A servant brought a bowl of steaming soup, which the Queen fed to the boy. Garsh thumped Yusan on the back.

  “I’m glad I listened to you, Yusan. You were right. You’ll be rewarded handsomely for this, but why all the ceremony?”

  “I can teach you the ways of Mujar if you wish, Sire.”

  Garsh glanced at the unman. “Can we persuade him to stay?”

  Yusan shook his head. “Not for long. He may accept comforts for a while, but I doubt he’ll stay.”

  “What if Mystar sickens again?”

  “I doubt that too, Sire. They say that once healed by a Mujar, people never sicken again.”

  Garsh tugged his beard. “How do they do it?”

  “Nobody knows, but, had he not wanted a favour from you, he wouldn’t have healed the Prince.”

  The King eyed the Mujar. “Why would he want a boy from my army?”

  “My guess would be that he was fulfilling another Wish, made by someone who helped him.”

  “Is there any way of holding him here?”

  “You mean trap him?”

  Garsh nodded.

  Yusan hesitated. “There are ways, but it would do you no good. You can’t make a Mujar do anything he doesn’t wish to.”

  The Mujar appeared to be harkening to some distant music, his head cocked. Garsh looked over at his soup-gobbling son, his heart growing cold. The lump of hatred that had always been a part of him swelled, fuelled by the aid of this worthless monkey who had made his son’s life so cheap.