by Gav Thorpe
Piece by piece, they disassembled him, revealing bone and organ. As with the skin, Erlaan's flesh was kept intact, separated into a few bloody ropes of sinew and muscle. He did not wonder that he still lived; the energy of the Temple, and the life of the captives, formed a shell around him, tingeing the air with a glitter on the edge of vision, replacing flesh and blood with pure power.
Lakhyri brought forth a burned crucible, in which was held a pool of bubbling gold. Erlaan was confused for a moment, until Asirkhyr and Eriekh produced a needle-fine blade and a niblike tool.
If the pain from having his flesh cut away was an irritation, the touch of pin and molten gold was an agony, a conflagration lit within his mind. The power of the Temple flowed into every stroke of blade and stylus, first crawling into his heart, every golden rune searing into the organ, a wisp of smoke quickly vanishing in the wake of every pen stroke.
Erlaan wanted to shriek as the priests moved on to his lungs. He knew that he was not breathing, not in any sense that he understood, and yet when the first runes were etched into his lungs every breath he was not taking was like breathing in the vapours of a lava-thrower. The pain was almost overwhelming, choking and internal, impossible to escape.
The torment became a never-ending coruscation of agony as brands were brought forth and sigils burnt into liver and stomach. Drills and awls buried themselves into his bone, through to the marrow, scoring an interconnected web of lines and symbols, each turn and piercing a white-hot needle of pain in his spirit.
He wanted to black out, to blot away every sensation by the time they had progressed up every vertebra and started work on his skull. Lakhyri prised open his jaw and used a tong to pull out his tongue. Sigil-headed pins were pressed into his gums and the roof of his mouth, and lines of silver sliced and melted into his tongue and lips. A shower of gold enveloped all that he could see as they laboured on his eyes, pricking and cutting, delicate strokes that were each an eternal torture he had to endure.
He thought that his torment would be ending soon as they reclothed him with his flesh, but the cessation of pain was all too brief. They branded and carved, stitched him back together with hair-thin wires upon which gleamed even tinier runes. Nails and rivets, their tips similarly etched, heads moulded in impossibly fine zodiacal emblems, reattached muscle to bone, tendon to joint. Every finger and toe, strung back together like the parts of a puppet.
They wrapped his skin across him, covering the grotesque beauty of their handiwork, using molten wax and stitches of hair to reattach his outer shell. Still they were not done. Upon his newly reapplied skin, they cut yet more symbols and patterns, down to every fingertip. They slid his fingernails and toenails back into place, now carved with swirling devices. With knife and needle, they scarred and tattooed, covering every part of Erlaan, each prick feeling like a sword thrust through him.
And then they stopped.
The agony became pain, became an ache, and then subsided.
Lakhyri held him down with his bony fingertips on his brow again. Erlaan still could not move, not the least twitching of an eyelid or the wiggling of a toe.
"It is not yet over," whispered the High Brother. "All we have done is to make you ready to receive the gifts of the eulanui. Now comes the hardest part."
Terror filled Erlaan. Tears welled in his scarred eyes at the thought that all he had endured had not been the worst.
The pain came again, forced into Erlaan through Lakhyri's fingertips, as if they delved into his brain. He felt the sheen of energy pouring over him, channelling down the lines and sigils like rivulets of water down a mountainside. Where they passed, the streams of energy left agony in their wake. They soaked through skin, drawn down into muscle by the devices wrought upon them; and through muscle into organ and bone.
Flesh bubbled, contorted, expanded. Bones lengthened and strengthened, pushing his flesh apart from the inside. Erlaan felt as if he were being ripped apart from within, unable to contain his elongating skeleton.
And then organs and flesh writhed with their own power, adding to a pain that was already too much to bear. His heart hammered, beating like a clap of thunder. He drew in a breath, a gale forced into his expanding lungs. Muscle bulged, testing the sutures in his skin, before it too was forced to change by the power of the Temple, cracking and hardening, like the crust on a lava flow, splintering and reforming constantly as Erlaan's muscles continued their distorted growth.
Life, true life, returned with a last implosion of power and pain.
Erlaan hurled himself from the slab of the Last Corpse, howling and shrieking, the last adjustments of his body settling into place. He roared, baring teeth like an ailur's. He opened eyes that were slit-pupiled and golden, and saw a world of startling colour and texture. He unclenched his fists, uncoiling fingers with extra knuckles, each digit tipped with sharpened bronze.
Panting, knotted chest heaving with effort, Erlaan pushed himself to his feet, his skin rustling like dead leaves. Around him, the desiccated corpses of the sacrifices were crumbling into whirls of dust, each a tiny storm of particles, until they too were gone, every last part of their energy flowing into the reformed beast that had been Erlaan.
"We are done."
Lakhyri's voice, once so heartless, so monotonous, was a harmony of notes, more touching than any music Erlaan had heard. The Temple blazed with rainbows of light, dancing from every surface like a sheen on oil. Erlaan moved his hand, feeling the touch of the air on every fibre of his fingers, the tiniest breeze as obvious as a fold in cloth.
Erlaan laughed to see and hear and feel the world as it really was.
ERSUAN BORDER
Midsummer, 211th year of Askh
I
Streamers of cloud clung to the Altes Hills, lit by the warm glow of the rising sun. The mountains reared just over the horizon, bright to dawnwards, shrouded in shadow to duskwards. As Ullsaard's small troop broke camp, the king looked coldwards, knowing Magilnada lay nestled at the foot of those peaks, though he could not see the city.
The thought of it made him fume. He had expected Anglhan to skim off a few taxes, perhaps aggrandise himself a little; this betrayal went far beyond anything Ullsaard could tolerate. The king's feelings went beyond resentment at the man's ingratitude, into a deep well of anger fuelled by personal loathing. Anglhan's alliance with Aegenuis was almost understandable; Ullsaard was well aware that he had turned on the previous king. That was, he had painfully learnt, the simple facts of power and politics. But to hold Ullsaard's family hostage, to threaten the lives of his wives, made the matter personal.
He wondered if Allenya was aware of the danger she was in. Was she being held prisoner, or was she blissfully going about her normal life, ignorant of the knife that Anglhan held to her throat? Ullsaard was thankful for one small mercy; his mother, Pretaa, had left Magilnada to return to her home in Enair. At least she was beyond Anglhan's reach.
And there was the matter of Noran. Ullsaard felt enough guilt on behalf of his friend without any need for further burden.
"Are you ready, king?"
Ullsaard turned his attention to the legionnaires around him, their tents packed away, the fire smothered. He realised he had been staring coldwards for quite some time.
"We'll get the bastards, won't we?" asked one of the soldiers.
Ullsaard looked coldwards again, picturing the walled city sitting at the base of the cliff. In his mind's eyes he saw the Hill of Chieftains and the governor's palace; Anglhan within, pleased with himself for his manoeuvring, doubtlessly plotting his betrayal of Aegenuis.
The former governor had every right to be smug. Anglhan held the one thing that could keep Ullsaard in check, dragging tight like the reins of an ailur. Ullsaard had not the first idea how he was going to change the balance of power. Anglhan had seen how easy the city had fallen to infiltration before and would have agents scouring every visitor for signs of subterfuge. A full-scale attack was out of the question. The merest hint of a legion
approaching the city would spell death for Allenya and the others.
For the moment, Ullsaard was powerless, but he knew that there was no such thing as a sure guarantee. The situation would change, and when it did Ullsaard would find a way to even the score.
"Yes," said the king. "We'll be getting the bastards."
II
The hotwards reaches of the Magilnadan Gap were dominated by heavily wooded hills, heaping upon each other until they became the shoulders and ridges of the Lidean Mountains. The dawnwards extent of the forests marked the edge of the Free Country, running along the Saol River. Ullsaard had no idea how closely Anglhan and his allies were watching the roads and rivers into Ersua, but had to assume the worst.
A long detour into the mountains would add at least twenty days to the journey, so at some point the king and his bodyguard would have to dare a crossing. The easiest way would be to find some boats or a ship rather than rely on one of the bridges. In this circumstance, the careful cartography of the Askhans would prove its worth. From studying the map he had brought with him, the king knew he was three days from the Soal, and if they cut straight to dawnwards through the forests, his group would avoid any settlement larger than a logging cabin or hunting lodge.
In double file, the legionnaires wound between the trees, heading towards the glimmer of the rising sun that could be glimpsed through breaks in the leaves above. The soldiers were armed and armoured, having abandoned the handcarts when they entered the forest. It was better that they were prepared for confrontation, in Ullsaard's opinion; so many men would arouse suspicion in these parts regardless of how they were dressed.
A summer shower had swept down from the mountains just before dawn and the trees were alive with the patter of water falling from the canopy. The ground was wet enough to leave tracks, but there was little Ullsaard could do about that; there was only so much secrecy available to a body of fifty men. Confident that the Magilnadans and Salphors were unaware of his presence, Ullsaard felt that it would only be blind chance for a hunting party or patrol to come across them now.
The going was not easy, as Sergeant Daesio led the way, pushing through brush and bush. The trees here were old and moss-covered; their huge roots a tangle waiting to trip the unwary. A thick layer of mulch clung to the king's boots as he followed the men in front, while rotted branches, hidden rocks and uneven ground threatened his footing every few steps. The chorus of birds that had welcomed sunrise had died down, but still the arboreal gloom echoed with shrieks and chirrups from all around.
They pressed on without stop until the sun was directly overhead, at which time Ullsaard called a brief stop. Sitting on a rock slick with lichen, the king pulled out the map stowed in the top of his pack and unfolded the stained parchment. As best as he could reckon it, they had covered fifteen or sixteen miles; slow going for a normal march but a good distance considering the terrain. Calculating this position on the map, Ullsaard figured they needed to turn more to coldwards in order to avoid a Salphorian village about twenty miles further dawnwards. He fixed his mind on the direction they would have to travel and put away the map, pulling out an apple in its stead.
Even as he took the first bite, the sound of a hissed warning cut the quiet, coming from the sentries off to the king's right. Ullsaard dropped the apple and pulled out his sword, rising to his feet. Others were standing and he whispered a command for them to stay low, the order passing quietly from man to man. Treading softly through the undergrowth, Ullsaard made his way to the three men that had issued the warning.
They were crouched behind the aging remnants of a fallen tree, looking to hotwards. Ullsaard came up to them in a stoop, eyes scanning the trees for a sign of what they had seen. He stopped beside the rotting trunk and lowered himself to one knee, leaning across the flaking wood of the dead tree.
"There," said one of the legionnaires.
Ullsaard's gaze followed the soldier's pointing finger and he immediately saw the glimmer of bronze through the trees, in a clearing about two hundred paces away. The midday sun was glinting from spear points but Ullsaard could see nothing more through the undergrowth and long grass.
"How many?" he asked.
The legionnaire answered with a shrug and a shake of the head.
Thinking that he had glimpsed the crest of a legionnaire for a moment, Ullsaard considered his options. Further investigation risked discovery. An attack would be foolish without knowing how many foes they faced. Either choice would likely lead to confrontation, and although the king was sure his men would overpower whoever was out there, they would probably be missed sooner rather than later.
He tapped the shoulders of the men with him and with a flick of the head sent them back to others. He remained at the fallen tree for a while longer, trying to catch another glimpse of the men ahead, but saw nothing more revealing than a few obscured figures moving back and forth.
Turning around, he saw that all eyes were on him; most of the legionnaires had gathered together a few dozen paces back and crouched with their shields and spears at the ready. Ullsaard sheathed his sword and raised a finger to his lips, before jabbing a finger to coldwards.
The sergeants quickly divided the group into parties of five, and each of these slipped away into the woods at short intervals. Ullsaard stayed until the last group was ready to head off. He noticed that Gelthius was amongst them, a strange smile on his face.
"What's so funny?" the king asked, hunkering down next to the captain.
Gelthius looked as if he was not going to answer for a moment, but then did so, his eyes innocently looking up at the trees, not meeting Ullsaard's annoyed gaze.
"Was just thinking that you can't have had this in mind when you wanted to be king," Gelthius said with a chuckle. "Sneaking through woods with wet boots and all."
Ullsaard glanced over his shoulder, back towards the strangers, now out of sight. He gave Gelthius's shoulder a comradely squeeze.
"No, it wasn't high on my list of ambitions."
He waved the group of men away and lingered as they stalked off into the trees. Gelthius was right. He hated having to skulk around like a thief. Part of him wanted to call back the legionnaires, march into the clearing and confront whoever was out there. He was king of the most powerful empire in the world, and it stuck in his throat to be so meek. He closed his eyes and pictured Allenya's face, calming himself.
"Patience," he muttered with gritted teeth. "One thing at a time."
Pride tempered with this thought, he turned and slinked away into the woods.
DEEP MEKHA
Midsummer, 211th year of Askh
I
The waters of the great lake were covered with petals and leaves, a multicoloured carpet of offerings that undulated with the swell of the wind. Two-thirds of the lake's edge was filled with pitched tents amongst the lush greenery; domed structures of dark behemodon hide painted with blue and yellow designs, held up with reed poles that swayed in the wind. At the centre of each group of tents had been placed totems and fetish staves with bones and feathers and skulls hanging from them, identifying the shaman-chieftains who were present.
Some way back from the water's edge, where the short trees gradually gave way to bushes and grass, thousand of Mekhani tribesmen and women had made their camps, sleeping in rough bivouacs around their fires. Behemodons ambled at the edges of the camps, hobbled by thick ropes passed through rings in their noses to shackles on their forelegs, their dung heaps attracting thick swarms of flies. Smaller lacertils and xenosauri sunned themselves in their corrals, tongues flicking, their dappled bodies crusted with sand and dirt.
The Mekhani mingled freely, rivalries both ancient and recent temporarily set aside by the neutrality of the Calling. Some entrepreneurs took the opportunity to trade their wares, free from the threat of banditry by other tribes. In the spirit of harmony, elders discussed territorial boundaries and water rights. Dressed in their finest head feathers, tasselled arm and leg bands rustling, their
red bodies painted with black and blue swathes, unmarried braves strutted from camp to camp attracting the attention of potential wives; such displays usually met with derisive hoots and whistles from wrinkled-faced matriarchs watching over their daughters and granddaughters.
Sitting cross-legged beneath his totem, Nemasolai gazed out over the great lake, lost in thought. Another Mekhani looking at the craggy, vacant-faced shaman-chief of the Allako tribe might have thought he pondered the ancient secrets of the waters, or perhaps contemplated the riddles of life, or even communed with the souls of his ancestors to divine his as-yet unknown successor.
In truth, his thoughts were prosaic. His latest mistress had left him before the journey to the Calling and the sun had risen more than thirty times since he had last been with a woman. As a holy man, he was forbidden from taking a wife, so his manly needs were met by the unmarried women of the tribe. He reviewed the potential candidates in a mixture of cataloguing and lewd daydream, trying to figure out which of the twenty-two available women best blended the virtues of beauty, athleticism, creativity, naiveté and experience he desired. He was engaged in mentally sodomising Olloroa, daughter of Mainamoa, unconsciously rubbing himself through his sarong, when a shadow fell across him.