The Broken World Book One - Children of Another God

by T C Southwell

  He gazed at it. “Could be another destroyed settlement.”

  “Maybe,” she agreed. “But perhaps there are people there.”

  The Mujar glanced at her. “You long for your own kind?”

  “Not really, but if there are people there, how did they escape the Black Riders?”

  “Then we’ll go and see, tomorrow.”

  In the morning, they set off up the coast, and within a few hours came across a huddle of tents and hastily erected shacks in a clearing by the beach. Talsy grew excited at the prospect of meeting people again, and especially finding out why they had been spared. Chanter stopped before they reached the settlement, and she slid from his back with the bag. He reverted to man form and, after studying the Trueman settlement, turned to her.

  “Go and speak to them if you wish. I’ll remain here unless you need me.”

  Talsy nodded, understanding his reluctance to enter the camp. She left the bag with him and followed a narrow path that meandered between the rocks. People worked amongst the tents and shacks, cleaning skins, salting fish, cooking, washing or mending clothes. They stopped work to watch her pass, some greeting her with smiles and cheerfulness, belying the gloom and death that hung over the land. Most were young women, with a smattering of elderly crones and young boys. The few mature men seemed to be honest farmers or tradesmen. She wandered around until a friendly freckle-faced girl of about fifteen offered her a meal and took her to a crone cooking a pot of stew. The meaty aroma made Talsy’s mouth water, and she accepted a bowl from the old woman and settled down on a wooden stool to consume it.

  The matron smiled. “Hungry, are you, missy?”

  Talsy nodded, her mouth full.

  “I’m surprised you look as fit as you do, wandering alone in the wilderness. What happened? Was your party attacked by brigands?”

  “No,” Talsy replied. “I had no party.”

  “You look too young to be a seer. Who warned you?”

  “Warned me of what?”

  The crone’s smile dwindled, and her eyes grew wary. “You are one of the chosen, aren’t you?”

  Talsy almost touched the mark on her forehead. “Yes, I’m one of the chosen. How did your people escape the Black Riders?”

  The old woman’s smile broadened again. “We’re all chosen here. I was the seeress of my village, and I received the vision that told us to leave. Only good people who don’t judge would be saved, I was told.” Her smile vanished and she frowned. “I had to leave my son behind. The vision warned that if there was one amongst us who judged and hated, the Hashon Jahar would hunt him down and slay him.”

  Talsy put her spoon down. “You mean, all of you are...? You don’t hate Mujar?”

  “That’s right. We’re the chosen. There are five seers here, besides myself. Each had the same dream and brought their people out of the doomed villages. None of us hate Mujar.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Talsy grinned. “Then you’re all saved! You’re the worthy!”

  “I’m Sheera, and I’m proud to be amongst the chosen. I knew a Mujar when I was young, and I saw him dragged away and flung into a Pit. You’ll find that almost everyone here has either known a Mujar or is the child of one who has. We know they’re good, simple people, and we have nothing against them. Only the proud and ignorant condemned them, and now they’ve paid the price. It’s a terrible thing, of course. My son was a foolish boy; he wouldn’t listen to me when I told him about Mujar.”

  Sheera turned at a groan from the shack behind her and excused herself to rise and enter it. Talsy ate the stew without tasting it. Just as Chanter had said, the fate of the world had indeed changed. More than a hundred people lived in the camp, all touched by the peace and humility of Mujar, destined to continue the Trueman race. Surely there were more in other settlements like this all over the land. Flocks of sheep and goats, as well as a herd of cattle, grazed in the grassland around the camp. Soon it would become a village, keeping the Trueman race alive.

  Talsy finished her stew and entered the shack to ask Sheera the questions that burnt in her mind. The old seeress sat beside a thin pallet, bathing the brow of the man who lay on it. He was stripped to the waist, his skin beaded with sweat above his tatty brown trousers. Dark brown hair was plastered to his forehead, and crooked brows frowned above a proud nose. His features had an air of quality and breeding about them. Lean muscle ridged his broad-shouldered torso, and a blood-stained dressing was strapped to his flank.

  Sheera held a finger to her lips, whispering, “He has a fever. The wound is bad.”

  Talsy knelt beside her. “Is he one of the chosen?”

  The old woman gestured for her to leave the shack and followed. Outside, she settled down to stir the stew again.

  “We’re not sure if he is. We found him a few days ago on our way here. He was with a party of women and children, all of whom had been slaughtered, but not by the Hashon Jahar. So we think he’s chosen, although it won’t matter soon; he’s dying.”

  “How do you know the Black Riders didn’t kill them?”

  “There were many dead brigands amongst the fallen.” She jerked her thumb at the shack behind her. “He was obviously a fighter. He had a great sword with him. We brought him here and I’ve been nursing him, but the wound grows worse and a fever has set in. Doubtless he’ll be dead soon.”

  “I have a friend who might help him, if he is one of the chosen.”

  “Then bring your friend, my dear, and let’s find out. He hasn’t woken since we found him, so we can’t question him. If he isn’t chosen, he must be cast out.”

  Talsy nodded. There was no reason for Chanter to avoid these people, who would not wish to harm him. In fact, she was curious about how they would react to him. She rose, thanked Sheera for the food and trotted back along the rocky path. She arrived gasping at the rock where Chanter perched, chewing a blade of grass and gazing into space. He smiled when she approached and slid down to join her on the ground.

  “Why the hurry?” he enquired as she strived to catch her breath.

  She leant on the rock and grinned. “They’re chosen!” He raised a brow, and she elaborated, “They don’t hate Mujar. They were warned of the Black Riders’ coming and fled their villages. The seers were given a vision or dream, and brought the good people to safety.”

  He nodded. “Good, then you’ll have company for the journey.”

  “What journey?”

  “We must continue westwards for the gathering.”

  Talsy glanced out to sea. “That’s west, into the ocean.”

  “Yes. We must cross it to reach the western continent.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll find out when we get there.”

  She shrugged it off, resolving to get it out of him later somehow. “Come on.” Taking his hand, she towed him towards the camp. “There’s one who needs your help.” She paused. “You will help him, won’t you? He might be one of the chosen, and therefore worthy.”

  “Might be?”

  “He’s injured, and can’t speak, but they think he is.”

  Chanter allowed her to tug him along, a hint of reluctance in his eyes. After the treatment he had received from Truemen in the past, she did not blame him for his mistrust, and cast many reassuring smiles back at him. On the camp’s outskirts, he stopped and studied the people with wary eyes, reminding her that he had not willingly entered the presence of men in his true form before. Since the demise of his clan, he had been suspicious of Truemen, and rightly so. She tugged him forward.

  The reaction of the chosen was mixed and surprising. Most stopped their work and conversations to stare at Chanter, and silence descended. Several youngsters ran and hid, peering from tents and shacks. One woman fell to her knees and sobbed with wild abandon, hiding her face in her skirt. Others moved to comfort her, and men who stood in Chanter’s path backed away. An old man came forward and bowed with grave dignity, his wrinkled face wreathed in a gentle smile.

  “We
lcome, Mujar,” he murmured. “We are honoured.”

  Chanter glanced at the old man, who lowered his eyes and retreated. Talsy led Chanter to Sheera’s shack, eager to introduce him to the old woman with whom she had shared a strong rapport. Sheera looked up from her work, and her bland expression changed to one of amazement and joy. Dropping the spoon with which she stirred the stew, she rose with a soft cry and strode towards Chanter, lifting her arms as if to embrace him. The Mujar pulled his hand from Talsy’s grip and stepped back.

  The air swelled and filled with the soft beating of wings. Sheera stopped and lowered her arms, and the manifestation of Ashmar died away. Her eyes overflowed, and she brushed at the tears that coursed down her cheeks. She cast Talsy a look of deep gratitude before turning her gaze upon Chanter again. Stepping forward cautiously, she performed a creaky curtsy.

  “You are welcome amongst us. I’m sorry I startled you; I mean you no harm.” She looked at Talsy. “You didn’t mention that your friend was Mujar, child. You should have.”

  Talsy glanced around at the gawping crowd. “I wasn’t expecting this reaction.”

  “Then what were you expecting, foolish girl? Many of these people have known Mujar and lost them to the Pits; others have only heard legends.” Sheera pointed at the weeping woman. “She loved one and lost him. The old man adopted one as his son, and lost him. The ones who are hiding have only heard the legends. You walk in here as bold as brass, towing a Mujar like a dog on a lead. What did you expect?”

  Talsy shifted, embarrassed. “What Mujar have you known?”

  Sheera blinked away fresh tears. “I too, had one as a son. I hid him for many years, for I lived alone in the woods. He was my pride and joy, so beautiful and gentle. We had an understanding, not a bond. I gave him all the comforts he wished, just for his company. When the townsfolk found out about him, they came and took him away to a Pit. They wounded him terribly with a spear, but he would not fight, even though I begged him to.”

  “Why did you run at Chanter?”

  “I... He looks so like him; I wanted to embrace him.” She shook her head. “But it was wrong, I know. He’s as wild and untouchable as my friend was. What bond do you have with him, that he allows you to touch him?”

  Talsy had not realised that Mujar were so reluctant to be handled. Chanter had been unwilling to approach her at first, she recalled, and he always kept his distance from Truemen. Her hand rose towards the mark on her brow, but a glance at Chanter stopped her, for his eyes held a warning.

  “We have clan bond,” she said.

  Sheera nodded and stepped aside, gesturing to the pot and stools set around the fire. “I offer comforts, Mujar. You’re welcome at my table, humble though it is. Are you hungry?”

  Chanter inclined his head and went over to sit on a stool. He glanced around at the people, most of whom averted their eyes or went back to their tasks, throwing surreptitious looks at him.

  Sheera dished up a bowl of stew and handed it to him, her eyes filled with wonder. Chanter ignored her, and the others who still gaped at him from their hiding places.

  Talsy sat on a stool next to him and asked Sheera, “How is the wounded man?”

  She looked blank for a moment. “Oh, he’s a little worse.”

  Talsy glanced at Chanter. “Perhaps you should see to him now, before he gets sicker.”

  He paused, a spoonful of stew poised before his mouth.

  Sheera protested, “There’s no need. He’ll be all right.”

  Chanter continued with his meal. To distract herself, Talsy asked Sheera, “How long did you know your Mujar?”

  “On and off for four years. He came and went as he pleased, of course. Sometimes he would be gone for days or months. Then he would reappear and stay for several weeks. He always slept elsewhere, for some reason.”

  The old woman’s ignorance surprised Talsy, who opened her mouth to explain why Mujar slept elsewhere. Chanter elbowed her, and she glanced at him.

  He shook his head. “You mustn’t speak of Mujar to outsiders.”

  “But -”

  “No.”

  “He’s right,” Sheera declared. “If Kuran had wanted me to know, he’d have told me.”

  “Kuran?” Talsy’s brows rose. “But -”

  “Talsy...” Chanter shook his head again.

  She scowled at him. “What?”

  The Mujar put aside his plate and took her arm, tugging her from her stool. When they were out of earshot of the Truemen, he stopped and turned to her.

  “Tell them nothing of what you know. It’s only you I told.”

  “Why? A Kuran is a forest guardian, not a name.”

  He nodded. “The Mujar she adopted didn’t give his real name. A Mujar’s name gives a small amount of power to anyone he tells it to, so most are reluctant to give it. The secrets I told you are for you alone, understand? You may tell them my name, because, coming from you, it gives them no power over me, but nothing else.”

  “Why did you tell me?”

  “Because we had clan bond. If they question you, tell them to ask me. They won’t.”

  She scowled. “You don’t trust them?”

  “They’re not clan.”

  “They’re chosen!”

  Chanter said, “Perhaps not all are worthy. The seers did the choosing. They may have made mistakes, or brought their sons and daughters who aren’t worthy. Many, learning that it would save them, will have pretended to be chosen. We’ll have to be careful.”

  “Surely they wouldn’t dare to harm us?”

  “When cornered, even the most timid creature will fight more fiercely than you ever thought possible.”

  “But they’re not cornered,” she objected. “They’re saved!”

  “They’ll blame Mujar for the deaths of their friends and families, and their hatred will grow stronger than ever. They’ll be looking for vengeance.”

  “Can’t you tell if they’re chosen?”

  “No.” He turned away. “Come; let’s go back; my food is getting cold.”

  Talsy trailed after him back to the camp where Sheera waited, looking a little nervous. As the Mujar sat down to continue his meal, she asked, “Did I do something to offend?”

  “No.”

  Sheera relaxed and filled his bowl with another lavish helping of steaming stew. Chanter finished it and thanked her when she would have heaped more into his bowl. He spoke the ritual ‘Gratitude’ without offering a Wish. A plate of food, Talsy supposed, was not a big enough favour to earn one.

  She asked him, “Will you help the sick man now?”

  Sheera protested, “No, child, the Mujar owes him no favour. You can’t ask for such a Wish.”

  “But he may be one of the chosen, and if so, he’s -”

  “Have you forgotten our little talk already?” Chanter asked.

  “No, but -”

  “Good.” He smiled. “I’ll look at him.”

  Sheera rose and held aside the tatty cloth that covered the shack’s doorway, then followed them in and knelt beside the pallet to peel off the bloody dressing. The injury looked like a spear thrust. It seeped clear fluid, and reddened skin surrounded it. The man lay as before, his skin beaded with sweat. Chanter knelt and scrutinised him, then turned to Sheera.

  “Leave us.”

  The old woman obeyed, pulling the cloth across the door behind her. In the subsequent gloom, the Mujar leant closer to touch the base of the man’s throat.

  “He’s marked.”

  Talsy glanced at him, then at the jagged scar on man’s throat. “What do you mean?”

  Chanter traced the scar. “He bears the mark of a Kuran. He has done some great service for a forest soul.”

  “So he’s chosen?”

  “He may be the most worthy of all these people, apart from you, of course.” He smiled at her.

  She scrambled to her feet. “I’ll fetch some water.”

  Talsy hurried out and almost bumped into Sheera, who stood outside, holdi
ng a pail of water. Talsy smiled and took it to Chanter. He filled a cup and poured it onto the wound as he invoked Shissar. The humble shack came alive with soft swirling mist, hissing rain and splashing water mixed with the crash of waves. Chanter laid his hands on the wound, and the seeping redness vanished. The edges drew together and sealed in a pale scar. The man’s skin cooled as his fever subsided, and a little colour invaded it.

  Chanter sat back as the stranger’s eyelids flickered, then opened to reveal the blackest eyes Talsy had ever seen. His expression changed to one of fearful surprise when he spotted Chanter, and he thrust himself back against the wall, banging his head on it. The Mujar watched him with narrowed eyes, and Talsy’s heart sank. The man licked his lips, his gaze darting between them.

  “Mujar.” He hesitated, glancing at Talsy. “Who are you?”

  “Friends.”

  “What’s happened? Where am I?”

  “You were found wounded in the forest and brought here. We healed you,” she explained.

  “My people?”

  “Dead.”

  He stared at Chanter. “Why did you help me?”

  “You carry the mark of a Kuran. You are one of the chosen.”

  “Yes.” The man ran a hand through his damp hair. “We left our village, but we were attacked in the forest. Could I have some water?”

  Talsy gave him a cup of water, and he gulped it down, finishing two more before he turned his attention to his wound and fingered the scar on his flank.

  “Why were you marked by a Kuran?” Talsy asked.

  “A what?” He looked confused.

  “A forest soul.”

  The man shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You helped a forest.”

  “I saved one, yes, because I lived in it. A bunch of woodcutters started felling the trees, and I chased them out. In a fit of spite, they set fire to the woods, but I stopped it with a firebreak. Then I taught them a lesson they’d never forget. On the way home, a bolt of lightning struck me.”

  Chanter nodded, studying the man.

  Talsy asked, “Did you save the trees only because you lived amongst them?”

  “No. Not entirely. I was raised in the forest. I didn’t want a bunch of idiots cutting it down.”

  “Do you hate Mujar?”

  “No.” He shot Chanter a wary glance. “My father was friends with one. He used to take me into the woods as a child. He taught me many things about the trees and animals. When I was eleven, he was taken to a Pit.”