‘My name is Elek. I belong to the Offspring of the Northmen, and would like to tell you of something that is happening among my people. It began some time before the messenger came to seek me out. At first, there were no more of them than the fingers on one hand. But soon, many more adopted this new habit of staring at the Yentru Sea for day after day.’
‘But is it not an ancient tradition of your people to stare at the ocean?’
‘Not in this way.’ Nakín’s question had been a friendly one, and so was the answer from Elek. ‘We are tied to the sea. Our life is ruled by its cycles. Hardly a day goes by when we do not go down to the shore of the Yentru. That is our usual place for reflection and repose; we look to the ocean for our sustenance and for answers. But what I have mentioned is different. Something strange is driving many of my people to stand motionless gazing at the Yentru, not eating or drinking, until their strength fails them. I have seen them collapse to the ground while they stare at the horizon. Some of them cry; others smile. All of them are waiting. When they are asked who they are waiting for, all they mutter is: “The Fathers are coming.” That was what was happening among my people when I received the order to come to the Remote Realm. And it may still be going on now.’
‘What you said seems a good sign,’ said the woman. ‘If the Offspring call the strangers “Fathers” that must mean—’
‘Let us not be hasty,’ said Molitzmós. ‘We should not let one good sign make us forget all the others!’
For some reason, Dulkancellin had not been expecting the representative of the Lords of the Sun to say anything like this. He was pleased to hear it, because he thought the same. He raised his hand in approval, and was rewarded with a grateful smile.
‘I saw nothing where I live,’ said Illán-che-ñe, who had difficulty speaking the Natural Language. ‘I saw nothing, and nor did the others.’
For some time now, the use of the Natural Language had been dying out among the Pastors of the Desert. Although the other peoples of the Fertile Lands considered it a duty to pass the language on across the generations, the desert tribes neglected it.
‘Remember, Illán-che-ñe left his land before the luku army arrived,’ Zabralkán reflected. Then, since a prolonged silence indicated that no one else had anything to add, the Astronomer raised his voice once more: ‘We have waited as long as possible for an unmistakable sign. But as you have seen, all have been obscure and contradictory. Whoever may be coming has already set sail. Our time is up. We have to decide on what we must do without possessing any certainty about the strangers. All that remains is for us to strive our utmost over the coming days, even if we have to admit that most of the time we will be acting like blind people or children.’
‘Tell me if I have understood correctly,’ said Molitzmós. ‘This Great Council has to draw up a plan and set it in motion. We all knew this before we came. What is new is that we will have to do this without any clear idea about the identity of those who are coming, or what their true intentions are. Am I right?’
Zabralkán nodded. Then he and Bor launched into a lengthy summary that left all the others with gloomy forebodings.
‘There has been no revelation, and so we have no clear knowledge,’ the Astronomers said. The many conflicting signs did nothing more than create confusion. And no one, not even Magic itself, was able to find an answer. ‘The sky and its stars are not speaking clearly,’ said the Astronomers. There were few records of anything similar ever having occurred before. It was happening now, and any mistake they made would mean the end of all hope.
‘We had been hoping to greet you all with the name of the strangers,’ said Zabralkán, ‘but that was not to be. There is something more we should like to say before we hear your opinions: even if it were certain it is Misáianes’ army which is drawing near to the Fertile Lands, even if that were certain, it would still be a difficult decision. How could we confront the power of Eternal Hatred? We do not have sufficient forces to do so, or any strategy that does not bring misfortune in its wake. This being the case, how much more difficult it will be to decide when we are not sure of the truth. The Northmen or Misáianes? We must try to be certain that our decision has the feet of a deer so that it can leap from side to side, causing the least possible harm.’
All at once, as if they had finally understood how much was at stake, everyone wanted to speak, to give their own view. Zabralkán had to intervene on several occasions to keep order.
‘How long will it be between when the ships appear on the horizon and when they reach our shores?’ Nakín wanted to know.
‘Less than two suns,’ Zabralkán replied. ‘But if we understand your meaning, we will have to ignore any banners the ships may be flying, or any message they send us. How could we trust them if we do not know who they really are?’
‘Could it be there is no better alternative than a surprise attack?’ asked Bor.
‘To attack them before giving them the chance to let us know who they are could mean an unjust death for the Northmen,’ said Elek.
‘We would regret their death in many ways,’ said Nakín of the Owl Clan. ‘Would they not return to seek revenge? We would spill the blood of the Northmen, and then they would spill ours.’
‘What will happen if it is Misáianes’ army which takes us by surprise?’ said Dulkancellin.
‘The Husihuilke has anticipated my own thoughts,’ said Molitzmós. ‘If we have to choose between complete devastation and a mistake, however serious it may be, I choose the mistake. I choose war.’
‘Will we be able to defeat Misáianes with spears and arrows?’ asked Nakín.
‘That’s a good question, beautiful owl woman,’ Molitzmós said again. ‘We are talking about a war against Misáianes as if it were like the wars we know. But be warned! Let us not forget that this is something more than throwing our spears and fighting to the last drop of our blood.’
‘We shall fight to the last drop of our blood,’ said Elek, ‘that is what the Fathers did. And that is what they said we should do.’
‘If it is Misáianes who is on his way, that means your Fathers were defeated,’ replied Molitzmós, Lord of the Sun. ‘Are we to follow in the footsteps that led the Northmen to their extinction?’
‘We have reached the most difficult point of our deliberations,’ said Zabralkán, ‘and we are pleased to have done so quickly. We all understand that war is the only reply the Fertile Lands can have to Misáianes. But it is possible that when we say “war”, not all of us are thinking of the same thing.’
Their spirits were aroused: gestures and words became heated, and the representatives split into opposing groups.
‘Do you remember what the sacred books say? They say: “Misáianes speaks words that sound like the truth—”’
‘Which means that until the very last moment they could seem like Northmen,’ warned Molitzmós.
‘The books also tell us: “They will come to devastate this continent, because that is their aim—”’
‘That does not authorize us to spill the blood of the Fathers,’ Elek protested.
‘They also say that at the start Misáianes will try to seduce the powerful and strong—’
‘Which means he will conceal his true intentions. And that he will have chosen ones ... who will be exalted—’
‘Chosen ones who could be amongst us here,’ said Molitzmós.
‘Chosen ones whom he himself will one day destroy,’ said Zabralkán.
‘“Not a single flower, not one bird left to sing—”’
‘Misáianes needs eyes and ears in every corner of the world. Eyes and ears to help him rule for ever. This earth is vast and full of hidden corners; the seas and the winds are also vast. Misáianes knows that Life will look for the tiniest of places to hide in: any fresh blade of grass, any hidden newborn creature where it can lodge and start again.’
‘Let’s put our faith in what a blade of grass can do then!’
‘I did not say that!’
/> ‘So we should let them put out the sun, and light a fire under the rocks!’
‘I did not say that!’
The day was drawing on. The people of Beleram went about their usual tasks, not imagining what was going on at the same time in the House of the Stars. There, since dawn, seven people were meeting who had to bear the weight of a momentous decision. The differences between them seemed insuperable. Arguments broke out; anger coloured both questions and answers. All the while, Zabralkán contemplated them serenely, as if he had known this was going to happen, and was waiting for the storm to blow itself out.
And in fact, from this tough but honest disagreement it was inevitable that the path of understanding should emerge. The first points of agreement were vague. When one of them tried to be more precise, they soon lost their way again. They drew closer, only to move apart once more. Yet every distancing was less extreme than the previous one.
It was at this point that Illán-che-ñe asked to speak. He signalled this to Zabralkán with an almost imperceptible gesture. Anxious to hear what the Pastor had to say, the Supreme Astronomer immediately granted his request. The young man representing the Pastors was seated on his mat in the way the men of his people always sat: with his legs together and bent at the knee, leaning his chest on them, his hands on the floor. It was some time before he spoke, probably because he had to search for the words in what little he knew of the Natural Language.
‘Everyone says of the Northmen ... They say the Northmen told them, the Northmen commanded them to ... but Illán-che-ñe wants to ask you all why you believe and obey these people. Nobody asks if the Northmen intended to deceive, and were lying about what was happening in their own lands.’
The silence that followed was a weary one. Illán-che-ñe’s comment forced them to return to the beginning. It left them once more at the start of the day, exhausted by the thought they had to start all over again.
In their minds, each of them went over the question put by the Pastor. Each of them thought that there must be a conclusive answer to it. It did not matter that none of them could find the exact words. Someone must be able to. Zabralkán would surely do it ...
18
THE SIDERESIANS
They were bringing the storm with them.
A fleet was crossing the Yentru Sea towards the Fertile Lands: many small ships with triangular sails that appeared on the crests of the waves, dropped into the troughs, and then bobbed back up again. The cloudy, moonless night sky was black; black the capes covering the men on board. And black, jet-black the dogs with frothing mouths that were crammed into cages on their decks.
On one of those decks, a man strolled slowly, beating the palm of one hand with the leather glove he had just removed. Leogrós, admiral of the Sideresian fleet, paced up and down without looking round him. He completely ignored the crew, who shrank back to leave him a free path, holding their breath. These beings mattered to him little more than the scraps of food he kicked towards the side of the ship. It was only when he met Drimus, who was heading in the opposite direction holding a bunch of living mice between his fingers, that Leogrós deigned to nod his head slightly in a sign of recognition.
Leogrós had to accept the Doctrinator, without really knowing what his powers were. He had to be content knowing that Misáianes had appointed him to command the three ships that were to aim straight for the port of Beleram. Although Leogrós was repelled by this misshapen being who knew nothing of weapons or wars, he did not try to oppose him, nor would he have been able to. So far, Drimus had not confronted him in any way. And yet a certain haughtiness about the way he behaved suggested Leogrós should beware of him. No one would have dared mention it, but everyone knew that the Doctrinator was protected by and obeyed One who was not on any of their ships. He and only He was Drimus’s master.
The Doctrinator walked to the stern of the ship. This was where he spent most of his time, curled up among the cages, feeding the black dogs. As soon as they saw him coming, the animals stirred. Backs bristling, jaws slathering, without even so much as growling, they kept a close watch on the man bringing them food. They knew the banquet was never enough for all of them, that only the quickest and fiercest would enjoy the taste of hot entrails. Today, however, the man was in a playful mood. He walked round the cages slowly, a smile on a face as lopsided as his hunched body. Picking one out of the bunch of mice he was now clutching to his chest, he held it up by the tail and swung it in front of the dogs. They all followed its movements intently, fascinated by the smell of fear.
‘Oh, my little ones! Your hunger will soon be sated, because all flesh that opposes Misáianes will end up in your guts.’
Drimus the Doctrinator threw the mouse into a cage. The dogs fought a short but vicious battle over it. The winner stalked off, clutching the prey between its teeth. The others prowled round, waiting for the next opportunity. Drimus did not renew his game until the first victor had rejoined the others.
‘He might win again. Yes, it could be, because he has the taste of fresh blood in his stomach. Oh, my poor little things! You’ll have to fight for them!’
The same bloody game was repeated several times, more or less identically. The last mouse twisted and turned between Drimus’s fingers. He watched it struggling for life while he decided its fate. Which cage should he choose? He was hesitating too long, and the dogs began to whine. Eventually, the Doctrinator put the mouse on the deck and opened his fingers.
‘There it goes! There it goes, my little ones! You will soon be free to chase after it!’
The dogs flung themselves against the bars of their cages, desperate to catch the escaping prey. The stormy wind carried the sound of their howls into the distance. More black dogs joined in from the other ships. Soon their noise drowned out the sound of the sea.
The game was over. Drimus squeezed his way between the cages. He took a few more steps, then sat down on the wet deck. Raising his hands to his nostrils, he smelt them: they smelt of fear, and he had no intention of wasting that. He stretched his arms out towards the two cages, thrust his hands through the bars, and offered them to the dogs to lick. His head drooped slowly forward until it hung from his skinny neck. The rain started to beat down again, but the Doctrinator sat without moving while the beasts fed themselves from his fingers.
The Sideresians did not come from the same land, did not speak the same language, were not even from the same species. They had never existed until Misáianes had called them to his shadow.
Misáianes’ legions were recruited among all the species that inhabited the earth in those ancient times. It took the Uncreated hundreds of solar years to bring them together, train them, remove all trace of pity they might feel, distance them from any love. Misáianes delved deep into the Creatures’ bitterness; he exacerbated their anger and hate to set them against each other, because he knew that out of this he could create his army. Then he blew in their ears, and many swore their loyalty to him.
Misáianes never left the mountain where he had been engendered. Others were appointed to come and go from his dwelling place with the threads of his vast web. Thick fog hung in the air of his territory. Death upon death, cold and darkness spread from there to threaten the world.
The vassals clamouring around him were of opposite kinds: the lowest of the low, and the chosen ones. The Master kept close to him a multitude of beings incapable of the slightest understanding: brutish slaves stripped of all feeling, who carried out the most menial tasks he commanded. There were others, though, who were allowed to draw near to his breath. These were Misáianes’ favourites, the prolongation of his fingers, of his will. They were the ones he sent out into the world, pushing forward the darkness. And far from that desolate spot, where the sun still shone and life went on as normal, there were many more who adored and served him. This was because his words sounded like the truth.
Misáianes turned brother against brother. He whispered in the ear of the arrogant, and turned them against the arrogant
; he kissed the forehead of the weak and turned them against the weak. He furthered his plots through murmurs and lies, so that everyone believed they knew what only He knew, and so that those condemned to die thought they had been blessed. Misáianes’ power was concealed by cunning and disguises. In this way, many followed him without suspecting it. In a war that only He, from the depths of his impiety, could have conceived.
This was the origin of the Sideresians.
A fleet was sailing towards the coast of the Remote Realm. And although some of the ships had sunk because of the terrible winds, there were still a great many of them.
Since dawn, there had been a bustle of activity on the ship where Leogrós and the Doctrinator sailed. The same was true of the other ships. The crew came and went from deck to hold; Leogrós and Drimus went over the details of the plan once more. The moment had arrived for the fleet to split into two. This was still several days before the Sideresians caught their first glimpse of the coast of the Fertile Lands.
Only three ships, under Drimus’s command, would sail into the harbour at Beleram. They would be carrying many more gifts than weapons. The others would head north until they reached the ports abandoned during the great migrations that had taken place when the local peoples headed south in search of warmer climes. Ever since then, the far north of the continent of Fertile Lands had been uninhabited. The distant north. The north beyond the Border Hills, the gateway to the land of the Lords of the Sun; further north than the Golden Valley, where their golden cities flourished; further north than Claw Canyon, where their slaves were sent to die. The north far beyond the last inhabited place.
This was where Leogrós’s fleet was bound. His ships were laden with weapons that no one who lived in the Fertile Lands would have been able to recognize. And with visible and invisible evils. Even ones that entered the nostrils of the Creatures and killed them with sickness.
The Days of the Deer Page 14