by Robert Earl
It was time to make good on his promise to his people.
It was time to return to Mourkain.
As he stood on the top of this granite crag, he could feel the approach of those he had summoned. Even a week before, he wouldn’t have had the power. Not only would he have lacked the art of calling to these creatures, but he wouldn’t have had the strength to bear the grey light of the overcast afternoon either. Every second he stood in it was pure agony, every time the cloud parted a little, he felt that he was being licked by fire.
Still, what was pain compared to the destiny that lay ahead of him?
He was Ushoran, and he had awakened.
The sound of beating wings roused him from his reverie. He gazed upwards, red eyes a muddy brown in the grey light, and saw the first dark shapes of the messengers that approached. They were clothed in darkness, their feathers as black as night, and their eyes twinkling like onyx beads.
Ushoran smiled at their approach, the expression sending twinges through the dead flesh of his unused muscles. The ravens had always been friends to his kind, and, when he had called, they had willingly returned to his service.
The ravens were upon him, and he stood, arms outstretched like some nightmare scarecrow that had been built by the birds to terrify the farmer. The ravens circled, and, if he could sense their hesitation, he could soothe it, too. Eventually, the first of them, a silver-feathered old thing that looked at least a century out of the egg, landed on his outstretched talon.
Ushoran turned to it, whispered his message, and then watched, as the old thing flapped its way into the sky once more.
Soon, others braved the terrible, irresistible presence of their master, and the sky was swarming with crows, as thickly as if they had been flies around a corpse.
When they went, they went quickly winging their way to his kind, or to the ragged remnants of his mortal priesthood, and to the scattered flocks of their people. The message he sent them was the same, simple command: the time is upon us.
It is the time of return.
The last of the ravens departed as night fell. Ushoran took a moment to revel in the release from the agony of daylight, before slipping silently into the darkness as he began to hunt.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“A true Kazarkhan must be an alchemist. He must know how to combine fire and water, summer and winter. He must know how to show mercy to those he has vanquished while showing justice to those who have vanquished them.”
– From the Catechism of the Kazarkhan On the day after the battle, the morning sun rose to reveal a day as fine as any the Strigany had seen since arriving at Flintmar. Autumn still lay heavy in the air, but the sky was the deep, endless blue of a perfect summer’s day, and the southern breeze was as warm as any embrace.
Some of those who had survived took the fine weather as a good omen, a celebration of their victory.
Others took it as the god’s mockery of their loss. In one day, they had almost been annihilated, almost. Only the will of Ushoran had saved them, but, lost in the misery of their ruined lives, not many found it in their hearts to thank him.
Bodies lay everywhere, tangled together in the cold intimacy of death. Young and old, Strigany and mercenary, man and woman; in the heat of battle none had been spared.
Then there were the wounded, the constant, wailing, weeping wounded. They called out for aid that only a few of their fellows could give. The petrus stalked amongst them, tending to their wounds as tirelessly as the crows tended to the bodies of the dead. There was an abundance of carrion birds, but there were too few healers. Always too few.
There were even prisoners to be dealt with. Most of the mercenaries had managed to flee, disappearing off into the endless wastes of the moor to find whatever fate awaited them. Others, too badly wounded or too shocked to run, had fallen into the Striganies’ hands.
It was their screams that finally woke Brock on that terrible, beautiful morning.
He emerged from the black depths of a sleep that had been more like a coma. After he had set his men to rebuilding the barricades the evening before, he had returned to his wagon to make tea from some of the painkilling herbs that Petru Engel had provided him with.
That was the last thing he remembered. He sat up, blinking in the gloom of his wagon, trying to remember where he was. His back ached, and he realised that he must have collapsed before making it to his hammock.
He enjoyed a moment of perfect, carefree peace. Then, the memories of the day before, and the responsibilities ahead, rushed over him, and he lurched to his feet.
Every muscle ached. Every joint was stiff.
“By Ushoran, I’m too old for this,” he muttered.
As he pulled on his boots, he heard another chorus of screams, animalistic in the abandon of their misery, and realised that they must have woken him up. He stretched, ignoring the pain, and then stepped outside his wagon.
The sunlight was bright enough to make him squint, and he had to blink a couple of times, before seeing the extent of the ruin that surrounded him. Hardly a wagon remained unturned. Hardly a yard of mud was visible beneath the tangled corpses and strewn belongings. Where once the muddy streets had been alive with his people, now, they were alive with little more than crows and swarming flies.
He staggered back against the door of his wagon. Had this been victory?
“Good morning, Kazarkhan.”
Brock blinked again, and turned to see who had addressed him. It was Mihai. His red hair was clotted with dried blood, and he was pale with exhaustion. The twins stood behind him. One had his arm in a sling. The other was staring through the walls of a wagon and into the distance.
Brock looked at them, and realised that yes, this had been a victory. After all, they were alive.
He gripped Mihai by the shoulder, and shook him, wanting to make sure that he was real. Then he smiled.
“You made it,” he said, breathing the words.
Thank you, Ushoran, Brock thought. Thank you for saving my son.
“Yes,” Mihai shrugged. “I’m alive.”
The two stood awkwardly for a moment. Another chorus of screams floated through the air, and both men turned, glad of the distraction.
“What the hell is that?” Brock asked. “Are the petrus up to their old tricks?”
Mihai shook his head.
“I don’t think so. At least, not from where those screams are coming from.”
“Where’s that?”
“The amphitheatre, where the prisoners were. That’s why I came to wake you.”
Brock looked at his son, and scratched his chin.
“Oh? We’d better go and have a look, then.” He paused, turning back. “By the way, how did you do it? To turn those giants against their masters must have taken some persuasion.”
“Oh, we just grabbed their handler. When you have the bull by the balls, he will follow.”
Brock laughed.
“You’re a real Strigany, all right,” he said. “I’m proud of you, do you know that? Not just because of yesterday, either. I mean…”
Brock trailed off, lost for words. Another peal of screams cut through the air, and he shook his head.
“Ah hell. Let’s go and sort this out.”
The four men set off through the bright sunlight and dark shadows that lay among the ruins of the camp. At first, their going was slow. The way was choked with debris and bodies, and none of them wanted to step over the dead. They soon became less squeamish, however, and found themselves climbing over the drifts of bodies as easily as they scrambled over the ruined wagons that lay shattered or burned all around.
As they drew nearer to the amphitheatre, Brock remembered it as the bloody testing ground where he had fought barely two days ago. Had it been only two days, he wondered, as he nodded to the Strigany he passed? It seemed more like two years, two lifetimes. He brooded on the thought, as he marched to the middle of the amphitheatre. Then he stopped, and a look of puzzlement creased his bro
w, as he tried to understand what he was seeing.
There were perhaps a hundred captives, perhaps more. Where once the mercenaries had strutted, now they cowered. Their uniforms, which had been confections of male vanity and martial style, were torn and ragged, and the men within them looked as bedraggled as peasants.
Flies swarmed around some of them, worrying at the dried crusts of their injuries. Others, although apparently unharmed, sat lost in the depths of their shock, as pale and unmoving as the dead.
In the centre of this miserable collection of broken humanity a mob of self-appointed executioners was busy.
Brock didn’t recognise any of them, although they were Strigany, right enough. He could tell by their loose-fitting clothes and their sharp features. He could also tell by the traditional slaughter frame they had erected among their captives. It was a simple enough thing to use and to transport in a wagon, just three poles with a winch at the apex, and the carcass of the animal hanging down from it.
Brock watched the butchers going about their bloody work, and for a moment he forgot about everything but the rumbling in his stomach. He should give the order to start preparing food for the survivors. Stew would be best, hot and easy, and nourishing. The gods knew they would need their strength in the hours ahead.
Then the scream came again, shrill enough to cut through his confusion. One of the Strigany butchers stepped away from his work, and Brock recognised the neatly dissected carcass for the animal it was.
“Stop!” he bellowed. The butchers turned to look at their Kazarkhan, knives and cleavers in their hands. When they recognised Brock, they lowered their tools, although with a reluctance that Brock was keen enough to note.
He marched through the captives, Mihai and the twins at his back, until he stood before the slaughter frame. Incredibly, the mercenary that hung from it was still alive. He glistened pinkly in the brightness of the morning sun, his body covered in blood.
Brock saw the bundles of muscles that twitched, as the man writhed in blind agony from side to side, and, with a rush of nausea, he realised that he was not looking at bloodied skin. He was not looking at any skin at all. The man before him had been flayed alive.
The Kazarkhan’s face hardened, and he looked again at the people who had done this. They returned his appraisal, and, although some of them looked uneasy, none seemed ashamed.
“Who,” Brock asked. “Who told you to do this?”
“I did, Kazarkhan.”
The voice seemed genuinely cheerful, and so did the old woman who had spoken. She stepped forward from behind one of her helpers, a stooped and wiry figure whose tiny body was lost within the black sack cloth of her robes. Her face was liver-spotted and sharp, and the weathered lines of it were creased.
She was perhaps eighty, Brock estimated, and, from the innocent joy that glittered in her eyes, she might have been interrupted while playing with her grandchildren, or gossiping and sewing with her friends.
The flensing knives in her hands, though, showed that she had been practising another craft altogether. Brock stared at the blades. The bony claws of her fingers were splattered with droplets of blood from her handiwork, and, despite her age, her grip on her weapons seemed sure.
“What do you think you are doing, grandmother?” Brock asked, forcing himself to use the honorific. If, as he suspected, this woman had been driven mad, it wouldn’t do to provoke her.
“Oh, I’m no grandmother,” she sighed, and, for a moment, the warm good humour that twinkled within the wrinkled pouches of her eyes dimmed. “I am a crone. Crone Maria, from the caravan of Domnu Malfi. As for what am I doing, well Kazarkhan, that’s obvious. I am extracting retribution, just as our Lord Ushoran would have us all do.”
There was a murmur of agreement from the mob that had gathered around her, and Brock fought back the urge to tell them what he thought of their retribution. They were armed. Their blood was up, and, now that he thought about it, there was a hint of madness about more than one of them. It was in the fever that burned in their eyes, and in their deafness to the screams of the man they had been torturing. Most of all, it was in the way they held themselves.
“We have all suffered, crone,” he said, at length, “but there will be no execution of prisoners while I am Kazarkhan. Is that clear?”
He locked eyes with the old woman. She didn’t seem particularly perturbed, just carried on smiling and nodding, and, suddenly Brock found himself wondering why he had been so upset. He had been overreacting. He must be overwrought, overtired.
A gust of wind set the hanging man spinning again, and he recovered consciousness for long enough to call out for his mother. His voice sounded too high-pitched for a man, and, Brock noticed that Maria, not content with skinning him, had removed other parts of his body too.
With a lurch of understanding, he blinked, and, feeling like a sleep walker who awakes to find himself standing on the edge of a precipice, he looked back at the crone.
“It is bad that you have done this thing,” he said levelly, “worse that you think that I, Kazarkhan, chosen of Ushoran and our people, could be persuaded with some witch’s charm. I have told you,” he said pausing, and turning to face the gathered mob. “I have told you that there will be no execution of prisoners. I am Kazarkhan. You will obey.”
They looked at him sullenly, and Brock was suddenly glad to have Mihai and the twins at his back. These people were like dogs whose bones had been taken away.
No. No, that wasn’t exactly it, Brock thought. What they look like are the mobs we had to fight through to get here: sullen, vicious and cowardly.
His disgust for them flared. They were Strigany. They should know better. They should be better.
“But Kazarkhan,” the crone said, her voice soothing with all the tones of sweet reason, “we aren’t executing them. I have learned some small skill as a midwife. I know of the humours and their rhythms, and of what will kill and what will not. I am merely exacting retribution. Whether they live or die is in the hands of their gods, weak and pitiful things that they obviously are.”
Again, Brock felt himself wanting to agree. Again, he resisted the temptation. It was Mihai who spoke.
“Excuse me for asking, most honoured crone,” he said with a polite bow, “but do you have any news of Chera, from your caravan? Did she survive the battle?”
Maria turned to him, and her eyes blinked in recognition.
“Yes, she is well, well and happy. I am sure that she will have some happy news for all of us soon.”
“Happy news?”
Maria nodded.
“It was about time she was married.”
“Married?”
Maria winked at him.
“Don’t look so shocked,” she said, “and don’t look so upset. There will be plenty of girls for you. After all, you are the hero of this battle.” Mihai felt his chest swell. “You are the tamer of the giants, the lightning from the clear blue sky.” His back straightened. “You are the saviour of our people, chosen by Ushoran to be the vessel of his divine will. Make no mistake, it is through you that Ushoran saved us.”
In that moment, Mihai knew it to be the truth. Kazarkhan was one thing, but what was a title compared to the reality of their god’s will?
“You who are the saviour of our people,” Maria continued. “You know it. You can feel it. You can feel it in the beating in your chest,” she whispered, “in the air in your lungs, in the ground beneath your feet. It is the will of Ushoran. It is the force of destiny.”
As the crone spoke, Mihai listened to his heart, listened to his breath, and felt the world that spun beneath him. He believed.
“In fact, take this,” Maria said, continuing with the smooth confidence of a cobra who has hypnotised its prey. “I will give you the honour of taking retribution from those who would destroy us all.”
The mob cheered Mihai as he reached out to take the knife, and, although it was shrill, the sound of their acclaim was sweet, so very sweet.
The hilt of the flensing blade was warm in his hand, the weight comforting.
“Mihai,” Brock said, “there will be no execution of prisoners here.”
Mihai turned to regard his father, and his eyes hardened with resentment. The contempt he has for me, Mihai thought, for me! A man, and not just any man, but the hero of the battle, the chosen of Ushoran. He is jealous. That is why he hates me, why he has always hated me.
“Are you sure there’ll be no execution of prisoners, Kazarkhan?” Boris piped up, his tone light, but his eyes wary, “not even for the hero of the bottle?”
“She said the battle,” Bran corrected him.
“Then she got that one wrong,” Boris said, “or, maybe she hasn’t heard about what happened in that tavern by Altdorf.”
“The bottle was the hero of that one,” Bran said. “He may be the vessel of Ushoran, but he still puked like a sewer.”
Mihai turned on them, annoyed by their prattle. Perhaps he should stop hanging around with them. They talked like fools.
“Mihai,” Brock said softly, “listen to your friends.”
“They are nice boys,” the crone added, her tone layering the words with a dozen different meanings, none of them good, “entertaining, but, there will be time for them later.”
Suddenly, from nowhere, the urge to use the crone’s weapon on his father burned through the confusion of Mihai’s thoughts. He had no idea where the impulse came from, but it was as bright as a wrecker’s lantern on a dark night.
After all, he was the chosen of Ushoran, so, why not?
The answer came to him in a sudden, terrifying memory of the things he had seen with Dannie in the lair of the Old Father. The pallid, broken things that had once been human, they had been the chosen of Ushoran too.
Mihai shook his head, suddenly appalled at the murderous impulse that had almost seized him. The crone’s expression hardened as she felt her grip slipping, and she took a step back as Mihai advanced, blade outstretched. It wasn’t the crone he was aiming for, though, it was the hanging man. As the mob looked on, Mihai lunged forward, putting the man out of his misery with a killing stroke.