Slowly the sounds outside their enclave entered Kai’s consciousness. The distant calls of his men setting fires for the night, sentries being placed, scouts returning. He would need to emerge into that world soon, yet Kai did not know how to leave this one, whether more was required of him, or if his God and master wished to be alone.
Yet before he could speak Kraal lifted himself from the limp body on the couch and continued to transform. Buds of wings sprouted on his back and his body lengthened. Kai glanced away from the disappearing appendage which had delivered Kraal’s seed into her body.
‘I don’t know which act intrigued me more,’ he said, ‘procreating, or portraying The White.’ He looked away pensively. ‘The White. I see one whose mind is not hidden from me. An interesting thought.’
Kai nodded, though he did not understand.
‘I leave her to your care,’ his master added. ‘Let no harm come to my child who grows within her.’
‘My life upon it, Master,’ Kai replied obediently.
‘I see that you understand.’ With a last penetrating glance, Kraal turned away and stepped through the side of the pavilion which dissolved around his form and then reformed in his wake. Outside Kai heard the commotion of men running and structures being destroyed as their God continued to grow, yet no man called out in fear, for this angered Kraal, and in the short time he had been among them they had learned not to anger their God.
Kai pushed his body forward, overcoming the immobility of the previous hour, to look upon the damage his master had wrought. The Southwoman was uncovered and though her skin was pale gold and theirs copper, Kai was struck again by the similarity to his own sisters. This one would not have seen twenty summers, and by the blood that marked the couch, had indeed been a virgin when she had first lain upon it.
Now she would bear Kraal’s child and Kai knew not what that meant. Would the child take a man’s form, or would he emerge as a small serpent? One thing of which Kai was certain, he must lie most careful when she awoke, for who knew what terrors might inhabit her mind. She must not inadvertently harm herself, or surely a swift death would follow for Kai.
If, indeed, that was not to be his fate after all.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘Our camp,’ the Stone Clan leader said and indicated a scraggly collection of tents amid the grasslands of Hand Steppe, half-way between the Plains and the Volcastle.
Djahr nodded, his throat too parched to speak, his head too tired to stay aloft for a thorough inspection. The Northmen appeared able to go days without food or drink but Djahr could not. Only the thought that they would soon be reaching rest and presumably sustenance had kept him on his feet. That and the knowledge that if the Northmen were this far east, they had likely overrun the Verdan hold and the Volcastle would be next. Fortress Sh’hale would fall rapidly thereafter, and if Djahr could not strike a bargain with their leader, then his own castle may come under threat.
Mooraz still lived, which was a miracle, yet Djahr did not know for how much longer. A stink of putrefaction rose from his body like the gorge that rose in Djahr’s throat at the sight of his swollen, oozing stub. The medicaments the Plainswoman administered had gone unchanged, and it would only be days, perhaps hours, before his former Guard Captain breathed his last.
‘Kraal comes to meet us,’ the Northman said and Djahr stopped, realising that a rhythmic sound he had been hearing for some time was growing louder. A sound of wind against the ground, a hissing, whooping sound. He raised his head and in an instant his tiredness was obliterated. His limbs tensed as though to run and his blood surged with terror.
Across the grassy distance between the Northmen camp and themselves there came an apparition, a serpent with eyes like burning coals and appendages which flapped up and down to keep him aloft, his long snout steering him in their direction. Djahr watched, unable to move as it landed on its paler underside, claws coming down to flatten the reedy grass, huffing breath scorching the air that touched his face.
‘My God and Master,’ the clan leader said from his kneeling position, head bowed.
Djahr neither knelt nor bowed, for he was too startled. Too in awe.
‘Do you bring another morsel for my delectation?’ the serpent asked, and Djahr shuddered at the unearthly tone, even before he registered Kraal’s intent.
‘My God and Master,’ the Northman said, ‘this is the shaman of the Southmen. It is he who sacrifices dead bodies to Haddash.’
‘When I much prefer a squirming meal.’
Djahr stared in astonishment at the serpent’s mouth, sure that it now bore the suggestion of a smile.
‘You may leave us,’ Kraal said, waving a delicate claw at the Northmen, who paused only to bow to their God before jogging on to the camp and rest, leaving Djahr and his unconscious Guard Captain. A pair of live sacrifices?
Djahr could not drag his attention from the God of Haddash. He knew he should speak, yet no words came to him. To know of the serpent’s existence and then meet him was like writing the word ‘murder’ and then committing the deed. The first but a theory, the second a shock to mind and body.
‘You are the current holder of the title The Dark?’ Kraal said and Djahr wondered if this would be his death sentence. ‘My servant spoke highly of your devious nature.’
‘Your … servant.’
The large scaled face turned away and a huff of breath sent glittering fire-flakes into the air. Djahr watched in fascination, and then horror, as they formed into the familiar shape of his Shadow Woman.
‘Would you have her back?’ the God of Haddash asked.
Djahr shook his head. He would miss her services, not the least in his bed, but he would not have her back. When he had not known her origins, Djahr had thought himself to be her master, yet now he saw that she had been his master, manipulating him to the whims of her God. It was a shocking realisation, yet Djahr would not let it deter him from his goal of ruling Ennae.
‘You cannot continue as The Dark without her,’ Kraal said.
‘I have higher ambitions than that,’ Djahr replied, his attention wavering from those volcanic eyes only long enough to register the rows of sharp teeth below them. ‘Unless My Lord Kraal plans to rule Ennae?’
‘You killed The White’
Djahr stared at him blankly.
‘The descendants of the Ancients. The White. They are all gone from Ennae, thus am I able to enter. Yet how was this done?’
The serpent’s breath grew hotter, his tone more demanding. Djahr knew he must speak or surely die where he stood. ‘The White … King Mihale is dead —’
‘By your hand,’ the serpent said.
This was the moment when Djahr’s fate would be sealed. He could not lie for surely the Shadow Woman had reported the event to Kraal. Yet all might not be lost. If the serpent wanted Mihale dead, Djahr may be rewarded for his actions.
‘I murdered the king,’ he said, and though he would wish himself braver, Djahr’s muscles tensed in preparation for a killing blow.
The serpent merely continued to gaze at him and Djahr took courage from this.
‘The king and his twin sister have travelled to Atheyre,’ he continued, and was emboldened by a nod from the serpent, ‘yet the child to join the Four Worlds remains on Ennae, I know not where.’
‘False,’ Kraal said, and when he moved, Djahr flinched, yet the serpent only lowered himself to the ground, crossing his claws before him and resting his chin upon them. ‘The birth of the one to join the Four Worlds opened the way for me to leave Haddash, but this one is no longer here. I cannot enter a world where White resides. Thus there is no White on Ennae.’
‘But where is my son?’ Djahr asked, weakness suddenly assailing his limbs. The heat from the serpent’s breath seemed to rob his body of what little moisture it retained.
‘There is White on Atheyre and White on Magoria. These are the worlds I cannot enter.’
‘Magoria?’ Djahr said faintly. He wavered and slid to the
ground, barely able to remain sitting upright. His vision blurred. ‘Is my son in Magoria? How may I reclaim him?’ The youngest Guardian, Pagan, was unaccounted for. It must have been he who took the child there.
‘You can do nothing but wait for The Catalyst’s return. In the meantime you may be of service to me.’
Over the buzzing in his ears Djahr heard the weight of this statement. This was the reason he was still alive, because Kraal required his services. ‘What would you have me do?’ he asked.
‘There is a talisman on this world that I would own,’ Kraal said. ‘The Catalyst may come for it, but it belongs to me.’
Djahr did not believe that for a moment. ‘Where must I seek it?’ he asked.
‘It was important to the fire worshippers of the Plains,’ Kraal said. ‘It may yet be in their possession.’
‘Then I will take it from them,’ Djahr said firmly, but inside he felt sick with anger at circumstances that had seen him kill the Plainswoman. She may have known the whereabouts of the talisman Kraal sought. ‘How shall I recognise it?’
‘I do not know,’ Kraal replied, ‘yet I will give this world to the man who finds it.’
‘Then I am your man,’ Djahr said, feeling some of his strength return. With his son in Magoria and no way to reach him, this was Djahr’s surest way to seize dominion over Ennae. ‘I will not rest until the talisman is yours,’ he vowed.
‘This pleases me,’ Kraal said, his rumbling tone reverberating through the ground and into Djahr’s tired body. ‘And to show my goodwill, I will do for your wounded fellow.’ With these words the serpent turned his head, scales glistening in the misty light of midday, and opened his jaws which were fully as long as Djahr’s body. From within these mighty jaws there issued a stream of fire and smoke which covered Mooraz and hid him from Djahr’s sight.
The stench of burning flesh rose around him, reminding Djahr of the banquets of the past when he had secretly dined on Plainsmen children. He raised an arm and covered his nose and mouth with his sleeve, his watering eyes unable to make out any detail of what was happening to his Guard Captain through the thick smoke. What did Kraal mean by ‘do for your wounded fellow’? Did he plan to eat Mooraz, incinerate him or …
The smoke began to clear and Djahr wiped at his eyes, struggling against the weakness of his body. He must not collapse. If he lost his dignity before this fearsome God, he may not survive.
‘Hale, but not whole’ Kraal said, and as the smoke wafted away Djahr saw that Mooraz had been stripped of clothing and that his severed arm had been cauterised. The stub appeared healthy, as indeed did the rest of him which was now startlingly devoid of hair also. The long black braids were gone and his dark worm lay curled against his belly, vulnerable without any nest of hair. Had Mooraz been given a choice, Djahr wondered which appendage he would rather have lost, his manhood or his sword arm?
Knowing the abstinence of his Guard Captain, Djahr suspected he would sooner retain his arm. ‘I am indebted to you, Lord Kraal,’ Djahr said and bowed his head. ‘I stand ready to repay your generosity.’
‘Then to seal the bargain, let us dine,’ Kraal said and again his breath of fire and smoke issued, accompanied by a low resonant sound that disoriented Djahr and forced him to close his eyes. A whooshing flew around his ears and then he heard Kraal’s fearful voice again, ‘Come, join me at table.’
Tentatively, Djahr opened his eyes, wide, and then strained them even wider as he looked about himself. ‘Where are we?’ he breathed.
‘My home,’ said the striking man seated across from him. ‘Haddash.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
Breehan laid a hand on Noola’s shelter and took a moment to clear his mind before announcing his presence. ‘Breehan,’ he said at last, feeling the same mixture of shame and embarrassment he’d felt when she’d told him, at the fire in front of the others, to call on her this night.
Noola’s head emerged through the door flap and she signalled with an open palm for him to wait, adding the dropped thumb to indicate that he was to wait there, in clear view of the rest of the camp, few though they were. Breehan was forced to stand like a fawning suitor outside her fibre lean-to while she prepared it for their joining.
A tug on his hair, freshly combed and bound in a Plainsman tail, jerked Breehan’s head and he turned to find Eef behind him. ‘Good fortune on your joining,’ she said and smiled.
‘Good fortune to you,’ he replied courteously, not quite able to meet Eef’s eyes. Her enthusiasm for their joining two nights earlier had shown little deference to his grief, and though Breehan had acquitted himself adequately to the purpose — to get Eef with child — there had been no softness of gesture in his actions save that of common kindness between tribesmen.
By her coy smiles and glances. Eef had interpreted the discharging of their duties differently. ‘I look forward to tomorrow evening,’ she said, though Breehan knew well that was not her turn. Still, it was Noola’s responsibility to keep peace within the tribe, not Breehan’s, so he nodded to her and she departed.
It was a still night on the Plains with a thick mist, which was customary for the warm season. Yet the previous night had been haunted by a howling wind from the Echo Mountains, thinning the mist and frightening the children. Magaru had claimed it was ill-omened, from the place of bad visions, and that they must stay in their shelters until it ceased, so Breehan had spent a day and a night in solitary vigil with only the eerie wind for companionship. Now he would lie with Noola who could not speak.
If she ever called him in.
At last the door flap was thrown open and Breehan ducked to enter, taking a place opposite Noola on the floor of the circular structure.
‘I come to do my duty to the tribe,’ he said formally.
Noola nodded and gazed into his eyes. Breehan wondered if she could see his anger there. Though he knew the necessities of the tribe and honoured them, his heart railed against Noola’s edict. She had allowed him no time of mourning.
Look at what I have done, she signed, pointing to the shelter.
Breehan transferred his gaze to the inside walls where Noola had drawn pictures of men and women engaged in the act of joining. Though not as articulate, nor as lurid, as the walls of the shrine where they had lost Hanjeel, the crude charcoal sketches moved Breehan, as indeed they were intended to do. Primarily a fertility invocation, they served also to awaken a man’s will towards the act, and many a homely woman with good drawing skills had been bedded before her more comely and less artistically skilled sisters.
Speak to me of the lore of joining, Noola signed, her gestures awkward, as though forced. It reminded Breehan that she also grieved and likely wanted no joining this night either.
‘Would you have me speak of the history of our tribe? Or hear instructions on how a joining may be enhanced?’
She nodded at this last and Breehan felt apprehension rise within him. That, and an unwelcomed stirring of excitement. Did she need his words to stir her passions as he needed her drawings to stir his?
He glanced at her sleeping baby in his woven-cloth crib, and then back to Noola.
Speak, she signed, a finger flicking off her lips; then her hand returned to lie trembling in her lap. He noticed then that she still wore her travel tunic and had not changed into the bindings that would allow him to unclothe her at length. He wondered what this meant. Had she forgotten, or simply lacked time? Or was this a signal that she wished no preliminary touching, only the consummation of the act.
Though Breehan was not a willing partner in their joining, this thought stung. A man was quick to passion but a woman must be readied, the flower of her maidenhood opened and softened before it could accept his hard offering. The purpose of the ritual bindings was to add a caress with each unwinding of the cloth, slowing a man’s urgency to the woman’s pulse. For Noola to forgo such comforts to hasten the ending of her time with him spoke of more than grief, it was a rejection of Breehan himself.
‘Do
you dislike me, Noola?’ he asked her straight, searching her eyes for truth as she shook her head. Had he slighted her in the past? Did she blame him for Noorinya’s death? Surely not. ‘I see more than grief for your sister and your tribe in your eyes,’ he said. ‘You do not wish to lie with me for your own reasons.’
The more he spoke, the clearer it became. Noola’s body closed up, her arms drawing in, her head lowering. To a Plainsman who was adept at reading the signals of the body, Noola’s reaction was akin to revulsion.
She looked away from the perception in his eyes, glanced at her child and then at the mattress where they would lie. This is not right, she signed, not meeting his eyes. Yet it must be. You belong to Noorinya …
‘Noorinya is dead.’
She looked up and met his steady gaze.
‘This coldness is not to do with Noorinya. It is between you and I.’ He was sure of it now. ‘What have I done to earn your distrust?’
Again she shook her head slowly. Even in death you belong to Noorinya, she signed.
Breehan frowned. There were no tribal restrictions when a partner died, even a leader. Was this a pact she had made with her sister?
Her glance slid away and she closed her eyes, then deliberately lay back on the mattress and slid the ceremonial cushion roll beneath her to raise her hips, thus ensuring his seed would remain within her and not drain away. Then she lifted her tunic. Beneath it she was bare. Breehan gazed at her soft brown curves, scant from lack of food and with hipbones protruding, yet the tender covering of her maidenhood softened the boldness of her gesture.
‘I will speak of the lore of joining,’ Breehan said, and laid a palm softly onto her leg, above the knee. She jerked and was still, her lips pressed tightly together, ‘I will tell of the great lovers of our tribe and how their desire to please their partners brought them both pain and … pleasure.’ With the uttering of this last word his fingers began to stroke where they lay, against the inside of her leg, low on the thigh. He watched her face, saw her set her teeth against the sensation.
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