A burning pain in Chanter's belly woke him. Unlike the sharp stabs the thug's knives had inflicted, this was slow torture. He writhed, his abdominal muscles becoming rigid, and opened his eyes. He lay on the floor of a grey-walled room, black beams ran overhead and a variety of instruments cluttered the tables around him. Fresh blood oozed from a cut in his midriff and reddened the hands of the bearded butcher who bent over him, holding a knife. The doctor smiled, and impotent rage filled Chanter's heart. He glared at the ring of spectators, who wore avid expressions of excitement and curiosity. Earthpower froze him, dulling the pain as it drained his will and denied him Crayash. He struggled weakly, his broken limbs useless, and some of the Lowmen sniggered. One spat on the floor next to his head.
"Not feeling so good, Mujar?" the hatchet-faced torturer mocked him, grinning. "At last one of your kind does some good, satisfying our curiosity. You lot have never been any good for anything before. It makes a change, doesn't it?"
The Lowman's cruelty fanned the rage that had always smouldered in Chanter's heart, and it spilt out to burn his blood.
One of the younger men crowed, "I bet he wishes he could die now!"
Raucous laughter greeted this, and many adjoining insults were bandied about, causing more merriment.
The torturer bent to wield his knife again, slicing open Chanter's gut to pull it open. The doctors and students leant forward to peer into the incision, passing comments. Chanter's rage grew in proportion with his suffering. Dolana filled him, the only Power at his command, yet his weakness mocked him. Still, he summoned what little willpower he had left and wielded the Earthpower with a lash of his mind.
Icy silence clamped down as the air froze into momentary solidity, and the utter silence of deep within the Earth pounded at his ears. Chanter grimaced, struggling to control the icy Power as it slid through him, calling for change, longing for freedom. It writhed and slipped in his grasp, a snake of cold force too strong to control with his weakened will. The manifestation was long, dragged out by his inability to use the magic. The frigid hush vanished as he lost his grip on it, letting it sink back into his bones.
Several Lowmen gasped and staggered as the Power released them, the rest stood white lipped and hard eyed.
Tranton wheezed and waved his hands. "Don't worry, he's just trying to change, but he couldn't do it. Even if he had managed, he's still helpless."
Jashon turned to frown at his friend. "Except I don't want to dissect a dog or a donkey."
Tranton gestured at the Mujar. "He can't, he's too weak."
"Luckily."
A doctor tapped Tranton on the shoulder. "The last time someone tried to dissect one of these bastards -"
"I know," Tranton said. "But they put him on a table. This one's helpless, I assure you. And anyway, Mujar are harmless."
Jashon bent to widen his cut, pulling aside skin and muscle to reveal shining viscera. Doctors leant forward eagerly, but their comments were disappointed.
"Looks the same as a Trueman."
"Doesn't bleed very much though, does he?"
Jashon grunted. "That's because he's not Trueman."
A student laughed. "If he was Trueman, he'd be dead already."
"Obviously." A professor shot the boy a caustic glance.
The Mujar tried to raise his head, but flopped back. Jashon pulled coils of intestine from the incision and peered deeper into his bowels.
"He has a liver and kidneys, just like us, only they seem smaller," he commented. "No fat. No appendix."
Chanter concentrated on the Dolana again, his longing for release becoming immense as the doctor poked and prodded amongst his entrails. The Power twisted within him like a cold silver snake, lithe and sensuous, a sea of Dolana that filled him to the brim, its abundance defying him to wield it. Never had he struggled so hard to grasp it in its fullness. Even when the spear had pinned him to the icy hillside, his fate had been acceptable.
Blood pounded in his brain as he strained, and the frozen silence clamped down again, gripping the Lowmen in cold talons of stillness. This time, he strived to frighten his tormentors into releasing him. Change was beyond his strength, but the world that had birthed him knew the call of her son and shared his substance, for he was a part of her. The icy hush winked out, and the Lowmen sighed and chuckled. Chanter sensed the world's response to his need.
A low rumble started within the ground, like distant thunder, and swelled. Several Lowmen glanced around, frowning in puzzlement. The torturer paused to look at a grey-bearded reprobate, who smiled and shook his head. The rumble deepened and grew louder, and the ground shook. Lamp fittings rattled on the walls, items vibrated off tables and clattered or smashed on the floor. Chanter concentrated on his command, Dolana's talons shredding his will. Tables walked across the floor, propelled by the vibrations running through it. Dust fell from the rafters in a gentle rain, powdering the Lowmen doctors' greasy faces. Some cried out in alarm and tried to run, but tripped and fell on the shaking floor.
A red cloud filled Chanter's mind, and warnings prickled his consciousness. Danger. Screams came from the street. Horses neighed and dogs barked. The crash of breaking glass slashed his ears with slivers of sharp dissonance. His will bowed under the weight of the danger, the dread that he might kill. His grip on Dolana slipped, and he released it. The rumble died and the shaking stopped, then oblivion claimed him in consolation.
Jashon glared at Tranton. "That was him?"
Tranton nodded, his skin pale under its layer of dirty grease. "Trying to scare us, that's all."
Jashon looked down at the mutilated Mujar's peaceful features, then at his white-faced, diminished audience.
"Seems like he had some success." He addressed the doctors who were leaving the room. "What, do you think a Mujar can harm us?"
Most returned, shame-faced, to their positions, others left anyway. Jashon feigned utter calm as he continued to cut.
Chapter Seven
Talsy stopped in confusion when a dull rumbling started in the distance, then crouched as the ground trembled. Beggars and pickpockets scuttled for shelter, and within moments the street was deserted. She had experienced earth tremors before, but none as violent as this. The shanties swayed as the shivering increased, and one down the street collapsed in a cloud of dust and a scream from within. Crows flew up in alarm, cawing, dogs cowered and whimpered, braver ones barked in warning and defiance. The huts rattled as the shaking grew worse, a deep-throated rumble filling the air with malignant power. A woman clutching a wailing infant ran screaming from a hovel as it caved in behind her.
The trembling stopped and the rumble faded, rolling away across the hills. Talsy jumped aside as a loose horse galloped past to vanish into the slums. The city sat under a pall of dust, black smoke streaking the brown haze as fires broke out. Jabbering people ran around, put out fires and searched for loved ones. Talsy hurried up the street in the direction whence the horse had appeared, for the beast must have come from a more affluent area.
Soon, she left the maze of hovels behind and entered the garbage-filled market place, where pandemonium reigned. People ran about, shouted and extinguished fires where braziers and cooking stalls had spilt their smouldering contents. Muttering merchants gathered up fallen produce and mourned broken pottery. Many stalls were barrows with awnings, and these had faired quite well, but some older stalls, built from rotting timbers or loose stones, had collapsed.
Livestock had broken out of flimsy cages or pens and ran about in bleating, honking or bawling herds, their yelling, angry owners in pursuit. House owners inspected the damage to their property and cursed, counting the cost with scowls. In the confusion, she snatched up some fallen fruit and vegetables, ducking into a side street to eat them. While she was occupied with this pleasant task, a lathered horse galloped into the marketplace, and its exhausted rider slid from its back, almost into the arms of a group of guardsmen. His hoarse cries filled the already tense air with further anxiety and dread.
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"The Black Riders are coming!"
Talsy craned around the edge of the building beside which she crouched, straining to hear the more subdued conversation with the guardsmen. Snatches of it reached her.
"…Two days away… Thousands… Heading straight here…"
Cold dread chilled her, robbing her of her hunger. People ran about in greater confusion, demanded more information, passed the news to the uninformed, and asked what to do and where to go. Talsy stuffed the pilfered food into her jacket, her anxiety redoubling. She had to find Chanter before the Black Riders arrived, and now she had less than two days to do it.
Jashon sawed through the Mujar's breast bone and reached in to cut out his beating heart. The doctor held it up, still throbbing, for his peers to inspect.
"Same as ours," one commented. The audience had become bored. So far, the differences they had found in Mujar anatomy were negligible.
Another doctor leant forward to gaze into the Mujar's chest. "It seems that Mujar are very similar to us, Jashon. So far all we've seen is a slight improvement on our own design, but basically identical."
Jashon studied the beating heart. "Indeed. Strange, don't you think? You'd think that a creature with such alien powers would be anatomically different, yet Mujar are the same as us."
"Then perhaps the theory that they're the blighted offspring of wild mountain women is true."
Jashon shook his head. "I've never believed that theory. Those girls couldn't live long enough to raise a child, and if that was true, they'd be able to breed with us."
"Not necessarily," an aged professor pointed out. "Mules are sterile."
Jashon dropped the Mujar's heart on the floor, scowling at it as it ceased to beat. "I refuse to believe that we're related to these useless yellow scum."
Chanter stared at the ceiling. The pain of his chest being pulled open had dragged him from the peace of oblivion. Everything had become dim and distant, the doctors' voices a faraway mumbling. His blood had stopped coursing, and his heart's ever-present beat was absent, leaving pain as the only sensation. Dolana held him helpless in its freezing grip, but mercifully numbed the pain. A nearby animal mind sparked some interest deep within him, and he sensed the movement of a rat behind a wall not far away. Concentrating, he used a little Earthpower, just enough to mind-lock briefly with the animal, relaxing as it turned and scuttled away.
The Lowmen tugged and pushed at his insides, sent waves of burning pain through him and forced him to retreat deeper into himself to escape it. Closing his eyes, he called on sleep to claim him, and it washed away the pain with gentle waves of darkness.
Jashon walked back to his house with Tranton, deep in thought. The Mujar's disappointing examination had made several of his peers mutter about the money they had wasted, and he sensed that he had lost status in their eyes, even if it was not his fault. They had probably expected a refund, he thought bitterly. He hardly noticed the fearful people who scurried along the street, or the loose animals and their pursuers, although some brushed past him rudely in their haste. When he did take note, he blamed it on the earthquake earlier. The damage from the tremor filled the street with broken glass and plaster, which crunched beneath the pedestrians' feet as they hurried on their way.
At his door, he bade Tranton goodnight and entered his modest dwelling, cursing when he stepped on broken glass inside. He closed the door and glanced around at the bare shelves and smashed ornaments on the floor. It had cost him a significant amount to furnish his house with good quality fittings and velvet curtains, expensive rugs and satin-covered chairs. He was particularly proud of his china collection, and surveyed the damage in the lounge with a frown. Years of painstaking decoration had been ruined in a few minutes of rumbling. His plump wife rushed out of the kitchen and grabbed his arm, her face drawn with fear, tear streaks ruining her buxom beauty. Her brown hair straggled from its bun and dirt streaked her lacy blue gown. Jashon patted her hand, not listening to her hysterical gabble.
"It was just an earthquake," he soothed. "Nothing to worry about."
She shook him. "I'm not worried about the earthquake! We must flee! The Black Riders are coming!"
Jashon stared at her. "The Black Riders?"
"Yes! Hashon Jahar! Two days away, coming here!"
"No, there must be some mistake, Hashon Jahar have never attacked a big city like Horran." Jashon gripped her shoulders. "It's a mistake!"
She shook her head. "A rider brought the news. We must flee!"
"Where to?" Jashon demanded. "They'll catch up with us out in the open if we do." Dread washed through him. His life as a respected doctor in a big city was threatened, and his numb brain struggled to accept it.
She wailed, "We'll be killed! The Hashon Jahar leave no survivors. They slaughter all in their path!"
"Yes. We must fight! We have an army, the city has walls. We must defend it, not run away."
"Most of the soldiers have already fled with their families! All that remain are old men and young boys. Everyone is leaving, the bridges are choked!"
Jashon sank into a chair, his legs weak. His wife flapped her hands and wailed, trying to get him to respond to her hysterical demands. He stared into space, and she ran back to her packing. His world had fallen apart, destroyed by the mere rumour of approaching marauders. Now he understood the hysteria in the streets and the dull-eyed panic of the population as they ran about amid the detritus. He would have to leave behind all he had worked for and give up a comfortable life for a slight chance of survival in the woods.
Even if they reached another town, it would take years to regain what he lost today. He rose and went into the lavishly decorated cream and white bedroom to help her pack, filled with despair. The heavy purses that swung from his belt hampered him as he bent to pack his clothes into a leather bag. Jashon straightened with a grunt of realisation. Mujar had the power to do anything.
Excited, he ignored his wife's angry exclamation and abandoned her to hurry to the front door. Even as he reached it, it burst open and Tranton rushed in, almost colliding with him.
"You've heard?" Tranton gasped.
Jashon nodded.
"I've come to ask to ride with you in your wagon. I have no beasts."
"We don't have to flee. We have the answer in the college."
"What?" Tranton looked confused.
"The Mujar. He can protect the city."
"But he won't!"
"We must make him."
Tranton shook his head. "You'd be wasting your time. He won't do it."
"We've never had a Mujar so much at our mercy before. He'll do it to escape the pain."
"He won't. Forget it, pack your belongings, we must leave at once."
Jashon thrust his friend aside. "I'm going to try. It's our only hope. If we flee, we'll be hunted down like rats."
Grabbing his coat, Jashon marched into the busy street. Tranton hesitated, his expression despairing, then trotted after him, his dirty grey robes flapping around his skinny legs.
Talsy rested beside a run-down house's peeling wall, tucked away out of the stream of fleeing people, carts and horses that had buffeted her since the alarm had been raised. The wild-eyed masses streamed eastwards through the city to choke the bridges across the river, and she wondered how many would be pushed off and swept away to die in the muddy torrent. She had no idea how she was going to find Chanter, she only knew that she must. Her first stop had been the town jail, where they might have held him before they took him to the Pit. Now she struggled towards the soldiers' barracks.
A crier took up his stance not far away and pulled out a rolled up parchment. Unrolling it, he shouted in ringing tones, "Hear ye! Hear ye! A proclamation from His Grace, the Governor of Horran! The city gates are being closed! No more citizens will be allowed to flee! All able-bodied men are charged to report to the armoury, where they will be given weapons. The city of Horran will fight the Black Riders! We will not run! The penalty for treason is death! This is th
e order of Cusak, Governor of Horran!"
The panic-stricken bustle slowed as people absorbed this astounding news and checked their mad rush for the bridges and a way out of the city. A great wail of despair and denial went up, and a crowd descended on the crier and beat him senseless. Talsy left her shelter and hurried towards the city gates, stopping along the way to ask a soldier where the barracks were. The harassed man gestured and marched away on some urgent errand. When she found it in a broad cobbled square close to the city centre, the soldiers who usually inhabited it were absent, but the grey stone building's cells held only frightened pickpockets and street thugs who could not be accommodated in the jail.
When she emerged, dusk sucked the light from the sky as the sinking sun drew its veil of luminescence with it, and night crawled in its wake. Talsy's feet and legs ached from a day of walking and running, dodging and climbing steps. She pulled a carrot from her jacket and munched it, settling into a sheltered corner where the barrack's roof overhung. The building's location meant that she had a good view of several broad streets that met at the square. The cries of distant mobs echoed through the city as men armed with torches and swords patrolled the streets to capture looters and deliver summary execution to those they caught trying to climb over the outer walls.
Other groups of citizens marched through the square in protest of the governor's order, clashing with loyalists in brief, bloody, torch lit battles. Surging crowds roared and dying men screamed. Feet pounded on the cobblestones as cowards tried to flee, the shouting pursuit of righteous citizens following them. Chaos reigned in the city this night, and Talsy huddled in her corner, buffered against the night chill by her jacket, unnoticed and alone. Her wounded arm ached. The cut had turned a nasty yellow, and she kept it bound with a rag. It needed to be washed with clean spring water, but none flowed in the dirty city. Cradling the throbbing limb, she closed her eyes and let sleep wash over her in a welcome tide, cutting off the shouts and screams of the beleaguered city.
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