"Try me," she challenged.
"I'm related to an Ishmak plant as you are to a monkey, different species, but similar genes. You build cities, monkeys live in trees, yet you're related. Mujar and Ishmak are related, but also symbiotic. The plant provides a pod and an egg, Mujar disperse its seeds. Mujar are all males."
She nodded, a little confused. "But if you provide all the genes for your offspring, he would be identical to you."
"Genetically, yes. But the look of the child depends on the health of the plant and the environment it grows in. Mujar come in many shapes and sizes, but all have the same colouring."
"I see. But if Mujar genes aren't used to having any competition, perhaps Trueman genes will dominate."
He hung his head. "Amongst Truemen, each parent provides half the genes, Mujar provide all, so if they are equally strong, the child will be more Mujar than Trueman."
"I don't mind. He'll just be more perfect, and I want a boy, anyway."
"You can't do it. Please listen to me. It will kill you."
"No. I won't. This is my baby." Talsy jumped up and walked to the stream to stare at the glittering water as Chanter had done earlier. Her mind whirled with half-formed fears and the ragged remnants of her earlier joy.
Chanter shook his head and sighed. "Hope that nothing comes of your plan, little fool. Perhaps the gods will spare you from your folly. I understand you, I think, though Trueman emotions are as alien to me as mine are to you."
"How can something so terrible come from something so beautiful?"
"Easily. It was not meant to be."
Pushing his bleak words from her mind, she demanded, "Aren't you even a little bit happy that you're going to be a father?"
"No." He raised his head to look at her. "Mujar have no paternal instincts. To me, it's simply a new threat to your life about which I can do nothing."
"But you will help me."
"Of course, I'll do everything I can to save you, but I won't kill."
"You won't have to." She forced a smile. "It'll be fine."
Talsy looked up at the towering peaks of the mountains whose name no one knew and wondered how they would overcome such a huge barrier. It seemed impossible. After another two days in the shelter of the Kuran's haven, during which Chanter had avoided her, the group had moved on. A further five days of travel had brought them to the end of the forest, where it had given way to rolling fields dotted with boulders shed from the mighty slopes. The massive mountain range stretched away in both directions, and they had seen no sign of Trueman habitation for months. The grassland led up to sheer grey cliffs, and snow capped the towering peaks.
They camped on the slopes while Chanter took wing as an eagle, returning hours later with news of a pass. The next day, they travelled for many leagues along the foothills until they came to a deep, steep-sided canyon that led into the mountains. They walked for several days amongst the rocky peaks, following narrow, torturous goat trails that wound through the mountain range in a bewildering web of aimless paths, many of which ended in sheer cliffs or small patches of hardy grass.
Freezing winds howled down the snow-clad slopes, making the journey more arduous, and the harsh land took its toll on horses and riders alike. The horses had to be clothed in blankets at night, and the people shared the tents for warmth. Talsy shared with Mita, Kieran with Taff and Brin with Shan, but the Mujar was content to stand guard, unaffected by the cold. With no grass to eat, the horses grew thin, and the Aggapae insisted that everyone must walk, so the horses carried only the baggage. Though tiring, the constant exercise helped to ward off the chill, and the rocky terrain made riding dangerous anyway.
They encountered no chaos beasts in this hostile land, but the earth's periodic trembling caused rock slides that thundered down the slopes with deadly force. They had to pick their way through the debris of avalanches and rock slides several times, and the horses struggled to traverse the shifting stones and tumbled ice and snow. Kieran muttered at Chanter's lack of aid during these times, but Talsy knew that the Mujar saw no need to help when they could manage. Chanter suffered from a typical Mujar lack of motivation, and seemed to forget his abilities until faced with a situation that demanded them. Mujar did not flaunt their powers, or use them unnecessarily.
Inevitably, they came to a yawning crevasse, newly opened by the shifting ground, which was dizzyingly deep and too wide to jump. Kieran turned from his inspection of it to shoot the Mujar a triumphant look, somehow pleased that, after all their toil, Chanter would be forced to help at last. Talsy countered his gloating with a scornful glance, daring him to make some cutting remark that she could slap down with a scathing comment.
The Trueman group withdrew, leaving the Mujar poised on the edge of the chasm, tugged by the wind. He bent and pressed his palms to the ground, the icy clamp of Dolana adding to the mountain's chill and its brief stillness halting the wind, after which it howled with renewed fury. He straightened, holding the reins of Earthpower, and the rock at his feet shimmered and thrust out in a broad tongue that spanned the gap and formed a bridge across it.
Chanter led the way across, and the rest followed, the Aggapae coaxing their reluctant horses. Once they were safely on the far side, the rock bridge shrank back and re-joined the mountain once more. Chanter led them down winding goat trails that webbed the rocky terrain. Topping a final ridge flanked by slopes of scree, the travellers stared out across the blue-hazed, rolling hills of the Kingdom of Zare.
Even from this distance, pockets of sickness were visible as spreading spots of brown eating up the green. The ravages of man were also evident as long fingers of denuded, blackened ground reaching into the forests to pluck out their souls. Chanter did not dwell on the sight, but started down the other side while the chosen stared in wonder at the spectacle below.
Vosh frowned at the depleted larder in amazement and annoyance, glancing at the pot-bellied child whose sharp teeth had munched their way through two month's supplies in one.
Law's prodigious appetite had kept Letta busy since his arrival, baking bread and cooking food to satisfy his endless hunger. The labour brought her great joy, however, something Vosh could not deny her. Her pride in the boy's rapid growth stemmed from her ability to provide the nutrition he required to achieve it. Like every mother, she revelled in her power to nurture the growing young. Law had refused to allow his silky white hair to be cut or washed, but the seeds had all dropped off, which improved his appearance somewhat.
When not eating, the boy spent his time exploring the citadel, trudged its endless tunnels and mapped everything he met with his hands. Vosh was certain that the boy never slept, for his comings and goings at night often disturbed the Trueman's sleep. The child's appetite seemed to include everything, and his hungry brain absorbed information like a sponge.
Letta had given him lessons in culture, history and writing, all of which he had mastered with consummate ease. To teach him to write, she had only to guide his hand through the shape of the letter, and after just one try he had mastered it. The boy's silence was her only concern, for he rarely spoke, and when he did it was usually a monosyllable.
The coating of dried fluid that Law had received from his mother plant started to crack after a month in the hive. His growth had stretched it to its limit, thinning the white silk considerably. As it had cracked and peeled, a raging itch set in, and Law had spent two days scratching and picking at it, leaving a trail of flakes and white hair.
At first, Letta had been worried that the child had a disease, but when he remained healthy, she had set about aiding him in his endeavour with a tub of warm water and a scrubbing brush. This time, the boy had welcomed the bath, and between him and his foster mother, they had divested him of every trace of hair.
What had emerged from the tub had taken even Vosh by surprise. The hairy white grub had been transformed into a creature of surpassing ugliness, with a pot belly and scrawny limbs, his skull covered with golden fuzz. His dead white skin h
ad added to his bizarre appearance, and only his delicate features had redeemed him from utter ugliness.
Letta had given him a pair of Vosh's old trousers, which hung on him. He had tied them at the waist with string to prevent them from falling down, and they had added to his grotesque appearance. Vosh had wondered anew at his breeding, but was unable to guess his parentage, and had decided to wait until he had grown some more. Within a few days, his skin had darkened, and by the end of a week had turned a pale golden shade.
Vosh frowned at the boy, who seemed unaware of his presence. Letta had gone out to tend to a man who had been wounded in an encounter with one of the wingless guards. He was certain that she had left a feast for Law, as she always did, but the boy had clearly consumed it all. Vosh glanced at the larder door, which had been pried open, then at Law, who was engrossed in a bag of biscuits. Vosh approached the boy, who turned at the sound of footsteps, his mouth full.
Vosh grabbed Law's arm to drag him from the larder. Law's reaction to this surprise attack on his person caught Vosh completely off guard. The boy yelped, and an explosion of fire flung Vosh across the room. The air screamed with it, and for an instant the room seemed to be filled with an inferno, then it winked out. Vosh stopped beating at his clothes to find that Law had scuttled into a corner and crouched there, his hands clasped over his head in an attitude of utter terror and submission.
Vosh approached the child cautiously, nursing his burnt hands, and squatted nearby. "Hey, it's okay. It's me, Vosh. I didn't mean to give you a fright. I'm not going to hurt you."
Law curled into a tighter huddle.
"Come on, Law. I'm not angry, it was my fault. It must be terrible to be blind, and not know who's grabbing you. I shouldn't have done it."
An hour of wheedling, coaxing and begging failed to draw the boy from his corner, and Vosh gave up. When Letta returned, she scolded Vosh for his stupidity, then tried for two more hours without success. Finally they decided to leave him alone, hoping that his hunger would draw him out eventually.
The golden light whispered in Law's head, confusing him. The flash of power that his fright had summoned confused him even more, but frightened him as well. He had no idea where it had come from, or how he had caused it. Vosh had been angry with him for being in the larder, and the strange power that had burst from Law had burnt him. The boy decided never to raid the larder again, and nor did he want to cause the fire to appear again, the thought scared him.
In the privacy of their sleeping chamber, Vosh told Letta what had happened. "It was the strangest thing. I'm still convinced that his mother was a caterpillar, or something like it, but now I think his father was a fire wizard."
"That's possible," Letta mused. "We saw one before we were brought here, remember? Since the night of golden lights, many Truemen have gained powers."
"Pity I never did." Vosh chuckled. "Still, it puts a new light on our son. He could be very useful with those powers. With him on our side we could take over here, hold the Queen to ransom, so to speak. They wouldn't dare to keep us as slaves if we had the power to burn their precious colony and all their revolting grubs."
"Some of which are yours," she pointed out.
He shuddered. "Don't remind me. They're abominations."
"So is Law."
"Yeah, but he's none of my doing, and he'll be very useful."
Over the next few days, Letta and Vosh discovered that Law had changed. He became reclusive, furtive, and inclined to scuttle away into a corner if touched. Vosh tried to talk to him about using his power to take over the hive, but Law shook his head, and when Vosh persisted, plugged his ears. Letta advised Vosh to give Law time to get over the shocking discovery of his powers, which Vosh did, fuming with impatience.
Outside a village in the heart of the inhabited lands, in an area that bordered the dead towns to the west, a young herd boy paused as he drove his cows home one afternoon. He still rode the sturdy pony his father had bought for him during the war with the land, but now at least he no longer had to strap himself into the saddle. Outside the wooden stockade that surrounded the village, the ebon forms of fallen Hashon Jahar lay in the mud between the lines of the old tar web.
The herd boy remembered the day they had attacked the village as if it was yesterday, so horrific had it been. Panic had proliferated within the walls as women had knelt in prayer. His mother had wept as she had clutched him and his four siblings to her and waited for the death they were all sure would come. The thunder of hooves had shaken the earth and filled them with dread. The shouts of the men on the walls had seemed like the bleating of sacrificial goats before the mighty blade of the Hashon Jahar.
Then the rumble of their advance had faded from an earth-shaking thunder to a softer drumming of fewer and fewer hooves, and even those hoof beats had slowed. At the first yells of triumph from the defenders, he had wriggled from his mother's arms and run to see what was happening. Atop the wall, he had looked down at the faltering Black Riders as their steeds had swayed and staggered, the Riders' swords and lances lowering. As if stricken by intense fatigue, the Riders had stumbled to a halt before the stockade. The defenders had hurled rocks down on them, smashing some of the ebon forms, while others had toppled over and lain still. Oil had been poured over those nearest the wall and torches thrown down to light it.
The defenders had cheered and celebrated as the last of the Riders had grown still, but no one had plucked up the courage to venture out amongst them until the next day. All that had remained of the mighty Hashon Jahar was an army of obsidian statues, and many villagers had taken great satisfaction in smashing them with hammers, breaking off limbs and cracking the blank stone faces.
After that, their presence had become a mere curiosity, and eventually a nuisance. Some men had tried to move them, but they had proven too heavy even for the strongest teams of cart horses to haul. So they had been left there. Fallen leaves had gathered in their hollows and moss grew on their faces. Children played amongst them, climbed into the empty saddles of the riderless steeds and pretended to fight great battles with their friends. However, a strange sense of foreboding lurked amongst them, and no one ventured into their midst at night.
The herd boy soothed his fidgeting pony and gazed at the statues, letting the cows wander into town on their own. Something had drawn his attention to the Riders, and he frowned at them. For the last two days, the eeriness around them had been increasing, and people tended to scuttle past them now. The children would not go near them anymore, and dogs avoided their proximity. Even during the day, they had developed a chilling presence, a sense of brooding watchfulness that made people's hair bristle.
A soft creak jerked his head towards an unbroken Rider still seated on its steed. He could have sworn that the Rider had moved, but logic denied that notion. Still, he studied it with a frown. So slowly that the movement was barely discernable, the Rider's head turned with a scrape of stone, and the blank eyes seemed to seek him out. He gasped, his heart pounding, as the Rider's eyes glowed with a sickly yellow light. As he sat frozen with terror, a wisp of pearly mist drifted from one of the other Riders and sank into the one on the horse, vanishing into its stone flesh.
Its yellow eyes brightened, and the Rider straightened slightly. Another wisp of mist drifted up from a broken form and sank into the mounted Rider. Its steed's eyes glowed, and the lifeless horse raised its head. The herd boy glanced around at the other Riders. Several of them now owned glowing yellow eyes, and a few had started to move. As yet, their movements were torpid, but more wisps of mist rose and entered them, brightening their eyes. More than half of the fallen Hashon Jahar were slowly coming back to life, and the herd boy’s heart contracted with dread.
With a gasp, he broke from his trance and kicked his startled pony hard, sending it trotting into the village as he shouted the warning to any who would listen. Everyone heeded his frightened yells, for the chaos was forever birthing new dangers to menace the village. A group of men ran to the ga
tes to see what had alarmed him, returning pale-faced to spread the news. By the time the populace were roused and whipped into a frenzy of fear, more than half of the Riders were on the move.
They stayed amongst their own kind at first, moving through the fallen Riders and gathering the pearly mist that rose from them. Gradually they grew stronger, their movements quickened and their eyes brightened to a sickly glow. The village's men gathered their weapons and closed the gates, congregating atop the wall to stare down at the Riders. Women prepared barrels of oil and lighted torches, ready to defend their town beside their menfolk.
The Black Riders collected the last of the mist that rose from their fallen brethren and drew together in a bunch. The Truemen atop the wall listened with horror to the Riders' hissing speech, the soft sniggers that arose from them chilling the defenders' blood. When the Riders turned glowing yellow eyes upon the terrified villagers, many longed to throw down their weapons and flee their baleful glare.
Just after nightfall, in the lurid glow of the villagers' torches, the Hashon Jahar approached the wall and hacked at the stout ropes that bound the mighty timbers in place. The Truemen threw down burning oil and rocks, but, although many Riders fell to the onslaught, within minutes they broke through the wall and invaded the town. The defenders rushed to fill the breach, fighting with swords and axes that broke against the Riders' armour.
Trueman fighters fell at the touch of their foes, dying with terrible screams at the merest brush of cold stone, which sucked their lives from them. As they killed the defenders, the Riders grew stronger and the fallen rose to fight again, strengthened by the death of the villagers. When all the men had succumbed to the Riders' merciless attack, they pursued the women and children and cut them down. The herd boy died beside his mother, his eyes filled with the horrifying sight of the Riders murdering his family.
Broken World Book Three - A Land Without Law Page 15