Monument

by Ian Graham

  These past weeks, he had inflicted much death.

  He had killed—killed frequently, killed often.

  He had killed in self-defence. Wardens had died because they wished to kill him. For the same reason, Carrande Black had died. And the young men, the youths, in the Archive Hall in Granthaven.

  He had killed for vengeance. He thought of the barge-master, Culgrogan—the arrow lodged between his eyes. And of Jonas Elsefar. True, he had known of Ballas’s plans, so Ballas would, one way or another, have been forced to kill him: yet it would have been a swifter death. He wouldn’t have abandoned him in the forest. He wouldn’t have left him exposed to starvation, to freezing—and to attack by wild animals. Had Elsefar not betrayed Ballas, he would have died without knowing death was at hand. He would not have expired in the jaws of wolves.

  Ballas had killed out of practical need. He had murdered Elsefar’s employers in exchange for the quill-master’s help. He could see them now: one in a pissing yard, a knife in his back. One on his office floor, his throat cut. One sprawled on the paving slabs under his window, his body awash with blood. And he had killed by accident: he recalled the whore in the slab-broken man’s bedchamber, a throwing knife protruding from her chest.

  And when he did not kill—others killed. In Granthaven, Wardens and Under-Wardens had killed because of him. And the populace had murdered those they had mistaken for Ballas. And they had killed Rendeage too—all because he was loyal to the Pilgrims’ teachings.

  And he had killed, too, as a god might kill: by bringing famine. In Granthaven, many had starved after the city had been sealed.

  And people had died simply because they knew him: Lugen Crask, killed by a shapeshifting Warden. Athreos Laike, who had been destined to perish all along but who had been denied the type of death he craved.

  ‘What am I,’ murmured Ballas, ‘but a bringer of death?’

  He took a few steps—then hesitated.

  It had not always been so. Once, years before, he had been contented. He had experienced nothing but warmth and security. He had known little of violence, of death …

  … An image of Hearthfall rose unbidden in his memory: a sprawl of green fields, criss-crossed with streams and rivers; cottages, deep trout-crowded tarns, stables and byres and hawthorn bushes, white-blotched by blossom …

  Something damp touched his face and trickled down his cheek. He reached to touch it. But he paused, shaking his head.

  ‘I’m bleeding again,’ he said.

  He drew a breath.

  ‘Piss on this. Piss on the whole bloody mess.’

  The ledge ended in a heap of boulders. Clambering up, Ballas found himself back on the slope. He had overtaken Asvirius; the Lectivin was a hundred yards behind him. It strode onwards, an elegance in its movements. It had resheathed its sword. And this gesture, this hint of complacency, pleased Ballas.

  Ballas stood stock-still, waiting to be noticed.

  Asvirius halted, staring.

  Suddenly, Ballas felt weak. He looked down at his chest. Blood had soaked his tunic and leggings. How much had flowed from his body? Enough to make him slightly lightheaded. To make his limbs shake.

  Around his boots, the snow was red.

  Ballas grunted: Jonas Elsefar had spoken correctly. Red was his colour. For much of his life, it had been the red of others’ blood. But now it was his own.

  Soon he would have a different colour. One far darker. One that would soothe him.

  He looked at Nu’hkterin’s sword. At the blade, as long as his forearm. Then he threw it away, into the gully.

  From his belt he drew a steel dagger.

  He walked towards Asvirius. Snow crunched. A breeze swirled around him. He tasted the purity of mountain air— and now he took pleasure from it.

  Asvirius raised its sword, adopting a fighting stance.

  Ballas halted, twenty yards away.

  Then he ran at the Lectivin, his head low, shoulders forward—he charged like a bull, and roared, and heard those roars echo across the mountains.

  Asvirius slashed its sword at Ballas: a clean, sharp, downward stroke. Twisting slightly, Ballas raised a forearm. The blade struck his flesh and slid through it. The cutting edge pierced fat, muscle—then rasped into bone. There was pain: more pain than Ballas had ever known. More, it seemed, than his body could bear.

  He ignored it.

  Thrusting upward, he sank his knife into Asvirius’s stomach. He pushed it harder, deeper—until it was lodged hilt-deep. Then he pushed it further, sinking the handle into the creature’s gut. Looping his left arm behind its back, Ballas half lifted, half pushed Asvirius over the snow, moving in a stumbling run. The Lectivin gave a harsh, rasping howl. It struggled wildly against Ballas’s grip. Releasing the dagger, Ballas curled his right arm around the Lectivin, squeezing so tightly that he felt its ribs buckle.

  He looked past Asvirius, beyond the snow—towards the chasm.

  Something stabbed his back, over and over. Asvirius was still using its sword. Perhaps it was trying to sever Ballas’s spine—to paralyse him.

  Ballas ran on—

  And, suddenly, he was hanging over the chasm—over nothingness.

  There was an instant of weightlessness. A delicious instant when Ballas knew that there could be no turning back. Asvirius gave a shrill, hissing shriek—the sound of a vipers’ nest set ablaze. Then they started to fall, the wind rushing past them, the rich scents of snow and stone rising around them.

  Ballas unsheathed a second dagger and plunged it deep into Asvirius’s stomach. The Lectivin’s eyes jerked wide. Blood frothed upon its lips as wild spasms shook its body.

  They hurtled deeper and deeper.

  Ballas looked past the Lectivin. No starlight penetrated the chasm’s depths. No moonglow, no pale blue-silver.

  Ballas gazed at this blackness … and grinned.

  Closing his eyes, he conjured a deeper blackness.

  And sank gratefully into the dark throat of oblivion.

  Out of a chasm, miles away, a flash of blue light erupted, sweeping over the mountains, momentarily enfolding everything: every stone, snowdrift, rowan tree. Uttering a blasphemy, Godwin Muirthan shielded his eyes—then breathed out. His eyes hurt, as if he had stared at the sun. Yet the feeling pleased him. It was the harbinger of fine news. It meant—

  Wing-beats sounded, and a crow alighted on the ground nearby. A blue glow—its hue identical to that which had sprung from the gully, but its force far gentler—surrounded the creature. Gradually, it grew larger, the feathers vanishing, the delicate bird-bones thickening.

  Blessed Master Hengriste appeared. The old Master opened his mouth to speak—but shivered, and drew his cape tight around him.

  ‘Sweet grief,’ he said, ‘it is cold. Up here, the very air is ice.’

  Muirthan gestured vaguely. ‘You saw the light?’

  ‘Of course, A good sign, yes: such brightness—during the Red War, they called it the Magus Glare. When a magicker dies, there is always such a—ah—spectacle.’ He fiddled with the clasp at the front of his cape. ‘So: let me make sure that I am not harbouring illusions: Asvirius returned, yes? But we destroyed it.’

  ‘We didn’t,’ replied Muirthan.

  Hengriste frowned.

  ‘The fugitive … Anhaga Ballas: it was his doing.’

  ‘He turned from adversary to ally?’

  ‘At a cost.’ Muirthan pointed to Nu’hkterin. The Lectivin kneeled beside the red-haired woman. She was drifting in and out of consciousness—but such things were common, during magical healing. ‘He struck a bargain. If we saved her, he would do as we asked. I had no choice but to do as he demanded. And in return … in return he killed Asvirius.’

  ‘You sound surprised.’

  Muirthan snorted. ‘He was a drunk, a thief—’

  ‘He was more than that.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Oh, come, Godwin: could a mere drunk, a mere thief, have eluded us for so
long? Every Warden hunted him. Every citizen sought his blood. Yet still he lived … And now, it makes a rough sort of sense. It is extraordinary, I grant you— but not unbelievable.’

  Muirthan did not understand.

  ‘This morning, I received a package from the archives at Ganterlian. When I first learned that he had used the sivis, I requested that all records on Anhaga Ballas should be sent to me—’

  ‘He is a peasant! There can be no records of him.’

  ‘He was a soldier, Godwin.’

  ‘Even so …’

  ‘He was a Hawk.’

  Godwin Muirthan fell silent.

  ‘He was a Hawk,’ repeated Hengriste. ‘One of the military elite. One of the Rarest. Of course, it was a long time ago: two decades have passed—’

  ‘Two decades? He had a hand in—’

  ‘The crushing of Cal’Briden. He helped destroy the rebel who would have obliterated the Church. Who would have plunged Druine into chaos.’ Hengriste sniffed. ‘He had a hand in all the Hawks’ major operations. Even the assault on Cal’Briden’s mansion—’

  ‘He was there, at the rebel’s death?’

  Hengriste nodded. ‘For three years, he served as a Hawk. Without him … Ha! I detect a pattern, Godwin: this is the second time he has saved the Church. As you say, Cal’Briden might have overthrown us. He was rich, he had a private army … But Anhaga Ballas was part of the force that defeated him. And now … now he has killed a very different adversary.’

  ‘He was a Hawk,’ murmured Muirthan, numbly.

  Hengriste spat on to the snow. ‘They dismissed him, in the end.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The missive from Ganterlian—it included a report by General Standaire.’

  ‘Does he still live?’

  ‘He died years ago. But it was he who dismissed Anhaga Ballas. He was too reckless, said Standaire. Too careless of his own life—and the lives of his comrades. Ballas joined the Hawks when Cal’Briden was on the rise. At that time, such qualities were required. But later on, when rebellions were few … ? No. He had outlived his usefulness.’ Hengriste sighed. ‘Standaire mistrusted Anhaga Ballas. He said he seemed selfdestructive. The more dangerous that campaign became the more enthusiastically he got involved. And he was ill-disciplined. He was a great fighter. But as for the rest …’ Hengriste shook his head. ‘He did not obey orders terribly well.’

  Hengriste looked towards Nu’hkterin. Muirthan also looked. The Lectivin continued to tend the red-haired woman.

  ‘Tell me Godwin,’ said Hengriste, ‘do you truly intend to honour the bargain you struck? Anhaga Ballas is dead. He won’t ever know what becomes of the woman; he’ll never find out if you hold fast to your promise. Ballas is dead,’ repeated Hengriste, ‘and thus, your bargain is cancelled. That is the way I see it.’

  Godwin Muirthan almost spoke—but something occurred to him. ‘He is more than dead.’

  ‘No man can be “more than dead”.’

  ‘His soul has been destroyed. The blue light—the death of Asvirius—such a force obliterates everything. Is that not what they say about Magus Glare? It obliterates not merely flesh— but the soul? Ballas has gone, gone from existence. He has left this world—and he will not arrive in the next. His soul has been scrubbed from existence. He will not be found within the Eltheryn Forest.’

  Hengriste stood very still. ‘That is true, Godwin. But let us not speak of him with reverence. He was not a saint—not a willing martyr.’

  Muirthan wanted, suddenly, to argue with Hengriste. He wanted to mention the visionary’s-root dream of the Three Chalices.

  But before he could speak, Hengriste said, ‘His death will prove useful. In a week’s time the Spring Festival will begin. We shall announce that the fugitive has been killed, that he is suffering amid the sulphurous fumes of hell. That will, I think, put fear into the people.’

  The aged Master seemed excited.

  ‘We shall say our Wardens were responsible. We shall fashion the entire thing as—as a tale of courage, of pious bravery. No—wait: maybe if Under-Wardens were said to have captured him … Then every citizen of Druine will feel as if they were involved. Of course, we must be careful. There are those, still living, who could speak of Ballas’s past. His fellow Hawks: I understand that they held him in awe. If they discovered he was the fugitive … the sinner …’ He coughed. ‘But they shan’t. Within a fortnight, they will all be dead. Precautions are being taken.’

  ‘What of his family? If they know—’

  ‘He has no family. Ballas came from Hearthfall, an agricultural region to the south. It was an area not untroubled by raiders. Once, they attacked the village where Ballas lived, and a terrible slaughter ensued. Standaire suspected, though couldn’t be certain, that Ballas’s family perished. I have checked the Church records, Godwin—and it seems that the General is correct. The year before Ballas joined the army, there were mass burials in Hearthfall. It seems safe to assume that grief-stricken and orphaned—for he was only fifteen years old when he joined the army, and thus fourteen years old when the raiders struck—he wandered for a year, uncertain what he ought to do. Then, like many aimless young men, he enlisted. Of course, he was three years too youthful to legitimately join the army. But he was twice the size of most recruits, and no one suspected a thing … But what does all this matter? These details are petty things. Anhaga Ballas is gone from the world. And history won’t remember him.’ Hengriste looked toward Nu’hkterin. And then the red-haired girl. ‘It would be easier, Godwin, if she died.’

  ‘I made a bargain—’

  ‘Even so. But then—it is your choice, Godwin. I am old, and not long for this world. You reap as you wish. I shan’t be twisted by the whirlwind.’ He fiddled with his cape. Then he sighed. ‘Damn everything. I despise these mountains. I don’t care if they are holy, if Scarrendestin once stood here. I shall return to the Sacros. We have suffered a lot, of late—but we have survived, yes? The Pilgrim Church’s deathbed has not yet been made. And we are entitled to compensations. I can think of none better than fires and whisky. Yes: I’ll return to the Sacros … for fires and whisky.’

  Blue light glowed around the Blessed Master. Shrinking, he adopted a crow form. With a dull crack of wings, he skirled away over the mountains.

  Nu’hkterin had finished healing the red-haired woman. Now the Lectivin sat upon a rock, its head bowed with exhaustion. The woman gazed blankly across the mountains.

  It would be easier if she died—Muirthan heard again the aged Master’s words. Their logic was cold, clear. If the woman lived, she could reveal the truth to anyone she chose. She could speak of Asvirius, Nu’hkterin, the Church’s secret magick. Most would think she was mad. But some would believe her. Enough, perhaps, to cause problems? Muirthan wondered.

  He strode across to the woman. He touched his knife—a fleeting tap of fingertips upon hilt.

  Suddenly, Muirthan grew cold. He felt as if every night-breeze was penetrating his robes. He shivered: a single, surprisingly violent spasm. He licked his lips, tasting frost.

  He took his fingers from the weapon. Then he held out his hand.

  Heresh stared uncomprehendingly.

  ‘There is a contract I must honour,’ said the Blessed Master evenly.

  Heresh slipped her hand—slender, bloodstained—into his. Her skin was cold. Yet Muirthan felt warm again.

  IAN GRAHAM was born in 1971 in the north of England and now lives in a small village on the edge of the West Pennine moors. He works as a bookseller and holds a Masters Degree in British Romanticism. In his free moments, he enjoys fell-walking, folk music, fishing, and reading. Monumentis his first novel.

 

 

 
e(100%); -o-filter: grayscale(100%); -ms-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share