Broken World Book Three - A Land Without Law

by Southwell, T C

  "The one who committed the act has paid the price," he murmured.

  "Tyrander's death means nothing if the world falls apart because of what he did."

  "I wasn't talking about Tyrander." The Mujar turned to look at her, raising the stump of his right arm. "I was talking about me."

  Talsy gasped. "You didn't break the staff!"

  "I created the Starsword."

  She shook her head in confusion. Even now, she did not truly understand him. His way of thinking confounded her, reminding her of his alien origins. "You did that for a good reason, not to break the staff. It's not your fault that it fell into the hands of an evil man who just happened to be the twin of the one you gave it to. The mistake was not yours!"

  "A Mujar was never meant to create a weapon. I did. I went against the predictions of the gods, stepped out of the mould I was meant to fit. My act started the chain of events that led to the breaking of the staff. Without the sword, it could not have happened. I alone am responsible for destroying the world."

  Her mind whirled at this revelation, and a dozen new thoughts popped into it unbidden. Her tongue outstripped her mind as words tripped off it without contemplation. "So you're just going to slip back into the Mujar mould I yanked you out of? You're going to sit here on this mountain and watch the world die, when you have the power to stop it, and do nothing."

  His eyes narrowed. "Who says I have the power to stop it?"

  "Damn it, Chanter, you can move the mountains, part the seas, stop the world from turning if you wish!"

  He nodded. "But I don't know all the laws."

  "You have to try! Step out of that Mujar mould again and do something with the powers the gods gave you! Don't you think they were given to you for a reason? Nothing you can do now can make the situation any worse, so what's the harm in trying to make it better?"

  Chanter smiled, a sadness invading the depths of his eyes that made her want to shake him. Defeat resided there with resignation and sorrow. His mentality was so gentle that struggle and aspiration were not listed amongst its qualities. In a flash of inspiration, she realised what the gods had done to these, their special children.

  Mujar had almost unlimited power; their abilities were awesome, yet their potential had been completely stunted by the inflicting upon them of a spirit that had no vision, no ambition, desire or drive. They were content merely to exist and be left in peace, undisturbed by the rigours of a world that did not touch them, for they had no needs. Pain could make them humble, torture could make them hate and help could make them grateful. What, she wondered, if anything, could make a Mujar angry, make him lash out with those awesome powers and change what he did not like?

  Talsy remembered Chanter's flash of anger when the Prince had injured the sea creature. Because it was forbidden, he claimed, by the gods. That proved that Mujar had the ability to feel rage, so there had to be a way to snap him out of his gentle resignation. The comparison that sprang into her mind between Mujar and animals was one she did not like to contemplate. If the only difference between Truemen and animals was Truemen's desire to change their world to suit them, then Mujar were more akin to animals than she was prepared to accept. They were not animals, however, and she had to find a way to motivate Chanter into trying to save this world.

  Kieran reached them and hauled himself onto the rock, his presence making their sanctuary crowded. Talsy glared at him as he glanced between them.

  "So, you found him," he stated. "Now we can all go home."

  "You can," she retorted. "Chanter and I are going to look for the staff." She glanced up at the Mujar. "Aren't we?"

  He sighed. "If that's your Wish, you know I can't refuse."

  "What are our chances?" Kieran asked.

  "I don't believe we will succeed," Chanter said.

  "Great," the Prince muttered. "So, do we carry on up this mountain, or is there a better way?"

  Chanter smiled. "Unless you can fly, there's no way out through here."

  "What do you mean?" Talsy demanded.

  "On the other side of the canyon above there is only a sheer cliff. It's a long way down, and thick forest below. You won't be able to climb down."

  Kieran glanced at Talsy and snorted. "So much for your bright idea."

  "It worked," she shot back, "I found him."

  "Yeah, but now we have to climb all the way back down this damn mountain."

  "Nobody asked you to come." Talsy left the rock, eager to quit the Prince's company and expecting Chanter to follow.

  The Mujar remained on the rock, and she tried to climb back up to haul him off it, but the stones under her feet slid away, carrying her with them. Unable to fight it, she let the scree carry her down, balancing so she did not tumble head over heels down the mountain.

  Kieran turned to Chanter and opened his mouth, then closed it and looked away across the vale. The ancient mountains surrounded it like grey stone guardians of the earth, thrust up at the dawn of time to protect this sanctuary of sanity in a world gone mad.

  "Go," Chanter murmured, "leave me be."

  The two Lowmen scrambled down the rocky slope, reached the green swathe below and paused to argue vociferously. Chanter knew the content of their debate. Eventually Kieran hustled Talsy away, half dragging her by an arm that she kept yanking from his grasp. Chanter sighed. Troublesome, arguing Lowmen, so noisy and pushy, unable to leave well enough alone. The world's sorrow rested on his shoulders, crushing the joy and energy he had always possessed. Why did she want to go out into the dying world beyond this peaceful valley he had brought her to? Surely she should be content, as he was, to live in peace and tranquillity until the end of her days? He rubbed the stump of his right arm as he mulled over his life, trying to make sense of it.

  In the clan it had been simple. He would spend the day sunning himself unless someone came and told him what to do. Usually it was to dig out the cesspits or clean the carcasses of the animals the hunters had slain. For this, they gave him a knife, which they took away when he had finished his chore. Sometimes he was required to dig a grave or break up the clods of earth in the ploughed fields. Simple, undemanding tasks. He had enjoyed that life. The horror of the battle with the Hashon Jahar had hardly touched him, only evincing a fleeting regret that his peaceful existence was ended, and sadness that he had not been numbered amongst the dead.

  The old hermit's task had not greatly interested him, its outcome unimportant and its performance merely duty. Then the foolish girl had chained him with clan bond, but he could have cast it off without a moment's remorse. Instead, he had clung to it as if it was his lifeline, and the more she had given him the more he had treasured her, until that moment when he had realised that she was the one he had been sent to find. At that moment, his life had changed.

  No longer did he wish to merely lead a peaceful existence, but instead a goal had been thrust upon him. To find the chosen and lead them to the gathering, where they would be judged. He had enjoyed having a purpose and a destiny, and being able to use his powers to help those in his charge. The challenge had inspired him and made him discover facets of himself for which he would not otherwise have looked. The responsibility had buoyed him, and the attainable goal the gods had given to him had spurred him. The empowerment he had gained had led to tragedy, however. He had overstepped the line and created a Mujar weapon that should never have been brought into being, and, in doing so, he had brought about the world's downfall.

  After the Staff of Law had been broken, the dregs of motivation had carried him onward. A remnant of the desire to protect those the gods had deemed worthy of saving had led him to this valley. Now his course was run and his responsibility fulfilled. The chosen were safe here, insulated from the growing madness outside until their lives were over, and he was content with that. He rubbed the stump of his wrist. The gods' punishment comforted him, crippling him in any form he took, a suitable chastisement for his mistake. Now he wanted nothing but to live peacefully in this vale, protecting
the people in return for the comforts they gave him. A good bargain, an unspoken clan bond. If the gods wished to save this world, they would. Why did Talsy want to challenge them by trying to save it herself? The idea was amusing, if only because it was so impossible. Why did she persist with this futile hope?

  Chanter sighed again and sniffed the wind. A faint scent of roasting meat came to him, and his stomach rumbled. He had not eaten for several days, and comforts would be nice. When Talsy had first asked him to take her to find the staff, he had silently refused. There was no point in searching for it, and the creeping lethargy that had taken hold of him since they had settled here rebelled at the idea of the hardships involved. Now she had forced him from hiding and made the request a Wish, which he could not deny.

  Troublesome Truemen, dragging him from his tranquillity on a fruitless quest for a lost cause. Still, the bond that had been forged between them when he had marked her was strong, and it would take years of inactivity for it to weaken, though it could never be broken. Facing dangers with her would strengthen it, a prospect he almost dreaded, binding him closer to her strong-willed, hare-brained ways. He had looked forward to the bond's dwindling that would set him free again, now that hope was thwarted.

  The world's growing sickness came to him on the streams of silver Earthpower that flowed through the ground. More and more, the Dolana was becoming corrupted and warped, the lack of law marring its perfection. In just six moons, its beauty had been tarnished, its iciness no longer pure and fluent, but tainted with warm spots of blackness. The Earthpower was the first to suffer, Crayash would be the last, Ashmar and Shissar would carry the taint between them. He sighed again and rubbed the stump. He rubbed it often, revelling in the imperfection that no Mujar would normally keep. Across the verdant valley, the sun sank behind the mountains' grey teeth, staining them with shadows that crept down the slopes to swallow up the tiny village nestled at their feet. Just like the darkness and gloom of chaos swallowed up his bright and joyful world.

  Chapter Two

  Shan lay in the grass, the sun warming his tanned back, and watched the grazing herd. The munching of jaws and the occasional stomp as a horse chased flies from its legs were music to his ears. For as long as he could remember, the herd had been his people's life. Two nights ago he had come into his sixteenth summer, and his acceptance feast had been a joyful occasion. The herd stallion had welcomed him, entering the headman's hut to snuffle Shan without any sign of distrust. As soon as the stallion had left, his father had embraced him and the Stone Ceremony had been performed. The strange stone that was the tribe's most prized possession had been taken from its soft bed of horse hide and pressed to Shan's forehead, then the headman had recited the tale of its origins.

  Many generations ago, the headman had told them, a magnificent black stallion with strange blue eyes had joined the herds of the Aggapae, who were horse-traders and thieves, breeders of horseflesh for sale into the cities' slavery. The Aggapae's avaricious ancestors had tried to capture him, but even their best horsemen had failed. The stallion had outwitted them at every turn, until, in their anger, they had striven to drive him away. The stallion had taken every horse they owned and vanished. Robbed of their living, the tribe had fallen into poverty and hardship, and no matter how many horses they had stolen, the stallion had returned and taken them.

  The headman's voice had dropped to reverent tones, and even the smallest babies had fallen silent as he went on. After the tribe had suffered for months, the stallion had returned, and instead of trying to capture him or reviling him for the doom he had brought, the headman had begged forgiveness. No one had doubted by then that the stallion was the god of horses, come to save them from slavery, and the headman had begged him to bring back their steeds, swearing never again to ill treat them. Further, he had sworn to tend them well, care for their sicknesses, rid them of parasites and lead them to good pastures. The stallion had struck a pebble at his feet with a forefoot, and when the headman had looked at it, he had found that it now bore a strange mark, a circle with a cross through it. As the headman had picked it up, the stallion's words had come to him.

  "Treat them well, and you will prosper, make them suffer, and so will you."

  The headman had sworn upon his life, and the blue-eyed stallion had left. The next day the horses had returned, and the headman had found that he could speak to the herd stallion. Others who had touched the stone had been blessed with the same ability, and each had been chosen by a horse with which he or she could converse. Soon every member of the tribe had been bonded with a horse, and they had prospered. Never again had they sold the horses, but the steeds had borne them swiftly to the hunt and to battle. They had helped to till the fields and haul their produce to the market, and the mares had given their milk for the children. Since that time, every child of sixteen touched the stone, then waited for their chosen steed to make itself known to them.

  Shan rolled onto his back and chewed a blade of grass. He had his eye on a frisky bay colt with a white blaze, which he fancied would be his. For two days now, he had stalked the colt, but not once had the animal looked at him. Glancing around, he spotted the black colt staring at him again. Shan cursed softly. The two-year-old was the current joke amongst the tribe. He had been born late one year to the herd's oldest mare, the black lead mare Shisab. Shisab was no beauty, being heavily built and slow, but her chosen, a fat farmer's wife, loved her anyway. The colt had been her last foal, since then she had turned barren and taken up guard duty.

  Shan glared at the colt. Although big, the two-year-old was coarse, his head broad and whiskery, his legs thick and feathered, signs of slowness. Every youngster longed for a horse that was beautiful and swift, like the bay colt. No one wanted the ugly black colt, least of all Shan. He was the headman's son, and deserved a better steed. He jumped up and shouted, waving his arms to try to drive the colt away. The animal snorted and flung up his head, and Shan bent to pick up a stone.

  "Hey!"

  Shan swung around. A line of wood gatherers wound through the pasture, heading for the clan's tent village. Their leader, a warrior named Brin, strode towards him. Shan dropped the stone before Brin reached him, trying to look innocent. The warrior stopped before him and dumped the wood he carried.

  "What did you think you were doing?"

  Shan glanced back at the colt. "I just wanted to chase him away. I wasn't going to hit him, honest."

  Brin slapped Shan, making him stagger. He blinked away the tears that stung his eyes as he straightened to face the warrior.

  "If you ever throw stones at the horses, you'll be cast out, stupid boy!" Brin glowered at him, his hard grey eyes unwavering in his strong, square-jawed face. The tattoos of his rank flowed down his cheeks in long lines, and the circle and cross of the Stone mark adorned his brow. "Why would you want to chase him away?"

  Shan shuffled his feet in embarrassment. "I want the bay colt to choose me, and that one keeps getting in the way!"

  Brin's eyes swept the herd. "Bashar's foal? A fine animal. But what you want is irrelevant. The horses do the choosing, not us. Did you ever think that the black colt might choose you?"

  Shan scowled. "No! I don't want him!"

  Brin cursed and turned as his horse, Task, nudged him in the back. The wood gatherers were far down the road to the village, and Task grew impatient to be rid of the load he carried for Brin. It was no more than he wished, but a heavy burden just the same. Brin stroked the horse's nose and whispered soft words that only his steed could understand. He turned back to Shan with a frown.

  "Task wants to go. You, follow me, I have words to say still."

  Shan trudged beside the warrior as he gathered up his wood and walked on towards the village, Task following.

  "Listen to me, boy," Brin said. "If the black colt chooses you, be grateful for it. He may not be a beauty, but he's big and strong."

  "Slow and ugly!" Shan cried, "I'll be the laughing stock!"

  "Would you rather
be unchosen? Horseless, like Jorn? If you think you're too good for the black colt, think again."

  Shan thought about Jorn. At his celebration, the herd stallion had snorted and laid back his ears, but had not cast him out. Jorn had never been chosen, and remained horseless, relegated to being a farmer and unmarried because of his poverty. By contrast, Shan's father, the current headman, had been chosen twice by the same horse, the only time that had ever happened. At sixteen, Jesher had been chosen by a fine grey colt called Nort. On the journey to the winter grounds, Nort had slipped in a river and broken his leg. Jesher had mourned and nursed him for a day and a night, then slit his throat to end his suffering. Three years later, a fine grey two-year-old colt had chosen Jesher, and given his name as Nort.

  Since horses did not live as long as men, a person would be chosen three or four times in his or her lifetime, but the first steed was always the most important. Shan's father was now thirty-five, and Nort seventeen, almost too old to retain his status as herd stallion. Soon a younger horse from the bachelor herd would challenge, and when Nort lost his standing as herd stallion, Jesher would also cease to be headman. Already many horses had fought Nort and lost, and the ageing herd stallion had the scars to prove it. He would leave behind a strong legacy, however, for he had sired hundreds of foals in his eight-year stint as herd stallion. Most of his challengers were his sons, since the majority of those sired by the previous herd stallion, which was also Nort's sire, were past their prime.

  While horses from the bachelor herd would make forays into the mares during the breeding season, the mares would have none of them, so every foal born was Nort's get. For three months in spring, Nort had a full time job covering mares and chasing off marauding horses, at the end of which he was thin and exhausted. The black colt was Nort's get, but bore no resemblance to his sire.