by Darius Hinks
“Unless…” said Seleucus, still stroking her neck.
“Unless what?” she whispered, too scared to move.
He took back his hand. “There will be a large crowd there tomorrow night. Executions are perennially popular. You will have a wonderful opportunity to atone.”
“Atone?”
“To tell them, little Puthnok, how wrong you were. How wrong you are. How foolish you were to speak against us. Tell the crowds that you only said the things you did because you craved power. Tell them you regret your lies and beg them not to make the same mistakes you made.”
Once more, Puthnok’s fear was washed away by hate. “Never,” she muttered. “You’re here because you’re afraid. You know I’ve started something.”
The wry tone vanished from Seleucus’s voice. “What do you think you’ve started?”
Puthnok flinched, unable to hide her fear, but then she raised her chin. “I’ve started an uprising. Killing me won’t change anything. The people have opened their eyes.” She waved at the network of gold that covered his armour. “You think you can hoard all this wealth while everyone else crawls in the shit, starving and bleeding while you hide in a palace, but it’s all going to come crashing down around your ears. I saw it in their faces. They’re your subjects no longer. This is the start of the end.”
Seleucus rose from his seat and seemed on the verge of striking her.
Puthnok cowered, but the giant shook his head and sat down again, battling to keep his voice level. “What would you have us do?” he said. “Let the people choose their leaders? Who would that leader be, do you think? Who would be the leader that united everyone? Who’s the person that would be chosen by the weazens and chosen by the aornos, and also by the ossops, and the krios and the hovellers. Who would they all agree on?” He laughed. “You?” He gripped the stone bunk and began crushing it as he spoke. “What do you think Athanor would become without us? Without fear. Without law. It would be a slaughterhouse. We’ve created a miracle here. This is the Great Work. Do you see? Athanor is the Great Work.” He looked away, shaking his head, and he no longer seemed to be speaking to Puthnok. “Even some of my own fraternity have misunderstood, thinking that personal power is the goal, but it’s not. The goal is Athanor. And it’s beautiful.” His voice grew rough with passion. “Athanor is not glorious because of its gold and its spires, it’s glorious because of the people who live here; so many races, so many disparate souls, living alongside each other. No other civilization has ever achieved this. Athanor has endured and grown and survived. We have created paradise, Puthnok. If you had even…”
Seleucus’s words trailed off and he shook his head, seeming annoyed that he had said so much. “You can’t understand, of course. Your kind never could. We let you into heaven and you want to tear it down. We give you a home and you want to change our laws – our way of life. Your kind believes only in destruction.” He rose from the bench. “You had your chance and you’ve made your choice.”
He was insane, realized Puthnok. He looked at teeming, starving masses, kept in line through terror and violence, and saw paradise. He was far more of a monster than she could ever have imagined. She massaged her shaven scalp, tormented by the idea that such a lunatic had so much power.
As Puthnok rubbed her head, something sharp scratched against her skin and she remembered the nail, the gift from Tok, a fragment of his own shell-like body, carrying all the violent, transformative power of his race. An idea occurred to her. She had spent her whole life surrounded by liars and she had always held herself to a higher standard, but now she wondered if it was time for a change. In her last moments, might a lie be excusable? Necessary, even?
“Wait,” she muttered, sure that he would immediately see through her crude attempt at deceit.
He halted by the door, still stooped, and looked back at her.
“Perhaps I do understand,” she said, loosening the fingernail in the way Tok had taught her. “It’s true, I suppose. People would never agree on a leader. There would just be warring tribes. The city would be a mess.”
“What are you doing?” he asked, quietly, his suspicion plain in his voice. “You don’t believe that.” He turned to face her. “This is fear talking, isn’t it? You’re afraid of a slow death.” His voice brightened. “It’s understandable. Why would you want to go like that, in agony? Swallow your pride. Say the things I want you to say, and I will give a signal to the executioner. He can make sure you die quickly and painlessly.”
Seleucus sounded excited as he came back to lean over her. “Whatever you think of me, Puthnok, I would not break my word. If you repent before you die, I swear to you, on the Temple itself, that you will die in fraction of a second, of a broken neck, rather than hanging there for who knows how long, trying to breathe.”
He was close enough. She had the nail in her palm. All she had to do was hurl it and he would die a horrible death.
Seleucus leant even closer. She could see his staring, eager eyes. She could kill him now.
And then what? She pictured the results of her murder. Another Curious Man would take his place. Another monster, indistinguishable from this one. A tyrant for a tyrant. And, in the process, she would make a monster of herself – just another liar, tricking and deceiving, saying things she didn’t mean so she could wield power, like Isten. She would be a murderer. She would be like the Elect.
She dropped the nail to the floor and shook her head.
“You’re right,” she said, meeting his gaze with pride. “I don’t believe it and I won’t say it.” She felt suddenly calm. “Let me die slowly, and with my soul intact.”
His eyes widened. “You filthy little worm.” He grabbed her by the throat and lifted her off her feet.
Puthnok gasped in horror as strands of metal exploded from the hand that was crushing her windpipe, whirling around her and skimming across her face.
“No,” gasped Seleucus, hurling her against the wall and letting her slide to the floor.
Pain knifed through her and she curled up in a ball as he towered over her, his voice as savage as the hiramites who dragged her into the cell.
“Whatever game you’re playing it won’t work,” he cried. “You’ll die tomorrow, as planned, in front of everyone. And they’ll laugh as you squirm. I’ll tell the executioner to make it last. The pain will be horrific, Puthnok. I’ll make sure of it.”
Puthnok was winded, gasping for breath but, as Seleucus stormed from the cell, she was pleased to see that he was staggering with rage.
30
Verulum Square was almost as crowded as it had been for the Festival of Undying Light. There were no wicker statues and no one had painted their face, but there was still a hideously carnival-like atmosphere. There were dozens of hastily erected food stalls to cater for the crowds and the mandrel-fires had all been lit, shimmering across the faceless statues of Curious Men. There was a stark difference though. At the centre of the square a scaffold had been erected with a noose hung from the crossbeam. Gathered before the gallows, their upside-down faces leering in the gloom, were hundreds of hiramites, standing in motionless blocks, their falcatas drawn and raised in silent warning.
As Isten and Brast shoved their way through the crowd, Isten saw something even more surprising than the ranks of soldiers. At the far end of the square, at the feet of one of the statues, was a group of Curious Men, their pale, yellow robes gleaming in the twilight and at their head was the Old King himself, towering over the others with the Emerald Lion at his side. Isten had never heard of the regent attending any kind of public occasion.
“She’s unnerved them,” muttered Brast. “All this talk of revolution has worried them. Look,” he said, pointing to some shapes behind the Old King, next to the phraters. They were large, copper braziers, propped up on metal tripods. “That’s how they summon their power. Even with all those hiramites here, they’re not taking any chances. Our little Puthnok has spooked them.”
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Isten nodded, but she was already regretting coming. Everywhere she looked she saw eager, excited faces – people shoving their way to the front, hoping to get a glimpse of the woman who had drawn the Elect from their temples. It was grotesque.
She was about to tell Brast she wanted to go when he grabbed her by the arm. “There she is!”
A murmur went through the crowd as Puthnok was brought out into the square. Her arms were shackled and her shaven head was covered in bruises and fresh cuts. She was still wearing her little round glasses, but one of the lenses had cracked. The hiramites shoved her forwards as though she was a dangerous fighter, despite the fact that she was barely five foot tall and looked more like a worried cleric. As always, she walked as though she was falling, tumbling forwards on her tiptoes, and the sight of her peculiar gait caused Isten to pause, tugging at an emotion she had almost forgotten. She allowed Brast to lead her back into the crowd.
The soldiers steered Puthnok up onto the scaffold where an elderly, regal-looking laborator was waiting to pronounce judgment. Next to him there was another hiramite. He was wearing a black leather mask.
Brast dragged Isten closer, and as they neared the rows of hiramites that were holding back the crowds, Isten saw Puthnok’s face clearly for the first time.
Her breath caught in her throat. Puthnok did not look scared. Or, at least, her fear was secondary. The main thing Isten saw in her eyes was defiance. She was unbroken. Unafraid. Prepared to die. It was the same furious determination Isten had seen in the eyes of the fox.
“Don’t die for this,” whispered Isten, surprised to find tears pricking at her eyes. “Don’t die for Athanor.”
Brast looked at her in shock. “What?”
She was not listening to him. As they pushed Puthnok towards the noose, the man in the black mask offered her a hood.
Puthnok shook her head and raised her chin, looking somehow taller than anyone else on the platform.
As they dropped the noose over Puthnok’s head, Isten felt a dizzying rush of pride. It flooded her limbs with a vigour she had not felt for a long time. “Not for this,” she whispered.
The hiramite in the black mask stepped forwards and tested the knot.
Then he stumbled, touching his chest.
Blood rushed through his fingers, and as he dropped to his knees, Isten realized there was a crossbow bolt sunk deep between his ribs.
Gasps of surprise and fear washed through the crowd.
The hiramites on the scaffold rushed to help the wounded man, while the ones lined up below looked to their captain for guidance.
“There!” cried someone in the crowd, and the captain ordered some of his men to break ranks and charge into the throng.
Screams rang out as the soldiers trampled and shoved their way into the mob.
Isten was shaking her head, still staring at Puthnok.
Another bolt sliced through the darkness, thudding into the chest of the old laborator. He was so frail that the impact kicked him from the scaffold and sent him pinwheeling back through the air. He landed on the flagstones with a crunch.
“Over here!” cried someone else, and soldiers rushed in that direction, eliciting more cries and leaving ragged holes in the rows of soldiers.
“They’ll kill the lot of us,” cried Brast, pulling Isten back the way they’d come, trying to lead her away from the scaffold.
She freed herself from his grip and pushed forwards into the tumult.
More bolts thudded into the figures on the scaffold, and those that still could began to scatter for cover, leaving Puthnok to stand alone in the moonlight, her head still trapped in the noose, her hands still shackled.
“We have to help her,” said Isten, surprised by her own words.
Brast stared at her, horrified and incredulous. Then nodded, forcing himself, with obvious difficulty, to follow her towards the gallows.
The lines of hiramites were now in complete disarray and, as Isten approached them, she saw the reason for the random shots and the cries from the crowd. With carefully planned timing, the people standing near the broken lines of soldiers rushed forwards, howling and drawing weapons.
Isten laughed in shock. Lorinc was there, and Feyer and Korlath and Piros. Dozens of Exiles, openly defying the Old King’s edict, smashing into the soldiers with a flurry of sword strikes and axe blows. Mixed in them were dozens more warriors – some of the headhunters Isten had hired and even some Aroc Brothers, all of them roaring as they tore through the reeling hiramites.
Puthnok’s followers smashed through the soldiers with ease. Clearly, no one had really expected an organized, armed attack. The hiramites tried to fight back, but the Exiles ripped into them with such ferocity that they had to fall back, unable to do more than parry as they stumbled across the square. Swords clanged and flashed as the fight descended into chaos.
Half the people in the square were screaming and fighting to escape, struggling to reach the gates, but the other half stayed where they were, howling in approval.
Isten could not believe what she was seeing. Puthnok had stoked a fire. She had roused an anger that had lain dormant for thousands of years.
She remembered the dagger tucked in her jerkin and drew it out, rushing to join the battle with Brast following.
One of the hiramites stopped and stared at her, his shock visible through the upside-down eyeholes of his helmet.
“You!” he cried, drawing back his falcata and charging.
She sidestepped and lashed out with her knife.
The blade clanged against his helmet. The metal stopped the blade but she hit him with such force that his head rocked back on his shoulders and he stumbled away from her.
Brast rushed forwards and punched him in the stomach, doubling him over.
Another hiramite broke through the chaos and slammed into Brast, sending them both rolling across the flagstones.
Isten booted the soldier off Brast and lunged with her knife.
The hiramite parried, drew back his falcata to strike, then collapsed as Brast hacked him down with a savage flurry of blows.
The first hiramite barrelled into Isten, but she grabbed her knife in both hands and hammered it down between his shoulder blades. As they slammed to the ground, the soldier was already dead.
She shoved the corpse away and staggered to her feet.
Brast was breathless and pale, but he nodded at her and they both turned and sprinted towards the scaffold.
As she ran, Isten saw that the captain of the hiramites was trying to lead his men up the steps towards Puthnok. He’d clearly decided to finish the job the executioner had started. Lorinc and some of the headhunters had got there first though. They had blocked the staircase and were now battling furiously to stop the soldiers advancing.
Puthnok was watching the battle with a dazed expression on her face. It was clear that she had not expected this rescue attempt.
Isten reached the bottom of the steps just as some of the headhunters fought their way to the same point. They grinned in surprise at the sight of Isten, and together they launched themselves at the scrum of hiramites.
The soldiers lashed out with drilled, brutal precision, but the skulls embedded in the headhunters’ flesh acted as a crude kind of armour. The shrunken heads crumpled and split under the flurry of blows but shielded the headhunters’ flesh. The headhunters swung their axes, bellowing war cries as they cut the hiramites down.
Isten ducked and weaved as she ran, dodging axes and swords and bounding up the steps, kicking hiramites into the air as she ran past.
She had almost reached the platform when the hiramites’ captain slammed her down onto the steps, his hand locked around her throat, his eyes blazing. “You?” he gasped, drawing back his sword to strike.
He slammed against her, vomiting hot blood as an axe whumped into his back.
Isten kicked him away and saw a headhunter looming over her. Dozens of faces grinned at her from his chest as he took her hand and
hauled her to her feet.
She nodded in thanks and pounded up the final few steps.
Puthnok looked even more shocked as she saw Isten racing towards her.
Isten cut the rope and caught Puthnok as she staggered, racked by painful cramps.
Fighting raged all round them. Dozens of the combatants had followed Isten up onto the platform and figures were whirling around, stabbing and lunging.
“You came to save me?” Puthnok was shaking her head, looking from Isten’s bloody face to the tumult around the scaffold. Hundreds more people had rushed to join the attack. There was a full-scale riot taking place. People were tearing down stalls and using the wood as clubs and stakes, attacking hiramites wherever they saw them. Some of the mandrel-fires had been kicked over, splashing chemicals across the other stalls and setting them alight. Fires were spreading quickly across the square.
Isten was as shocked as Puthnok by what was happening. “No,” she replied, unable to lie to Puthnok. “I came to watch you die.”
“But then you did this.” Puthnok stared at her. “Gombus knew. He was right about you. I never believed him but he knew.”
A hiramite broke through the scrum and charged towards them.
Isten was ready. She dodged his sword thrust and hammered her knife into the back of his neck.
The soldier sprawled at her feet and, as he tried to rise, Isten booted him off the scaffold, sending him plummeting to the crowds below.
“Fuck! Them! All!” roared Lorinc, appearing at her side, laughing wildly, his face drenched in blood. He looked deranged. “Fuck ’em, fuck ’em, fuck ’em!”
He stood in front of Isten and Puthnok, and every time a hiramite tried to reach them, he tore into them like a wounded bear, ripping, hacking and punching until they were surrounded by a pile of bodies.
Others followed suit, forming a protective circle around Isten and Puthnok, fighting with shocking violence, determined to protect the two women as more hiramites battled up the steps onto the platform.