by Stewart Ross
Yash shook his head vigorously. “Come off it, Cyrus!” he laughed. “You and your daft ideas! First the head business, now this. What do you say, Bahm?”
“Never heard of a Zed dreaming up anything half as clever as that. No, I say we go ahead as planned.”
“So do I,” echoed Yash.
Cyrus gave it one more try. “But the commander said the chant mentioned Timur and his head. If that’s true, their new leader must be pretty clever to understand the power of a head –”
“Who said it was definitely ‘head’?” interrupted Yash. “More likely to be ‘dead’. Those useless Grozny are probably on some suicide mission now their leader’s gone.”
“And we’ll make sure the suicide bit of the mission is successful, eh?” chuckled Bahm. Yash joined in with his friend’s laughter.
Seeing there was no point in pursuing the point further, Cyrus went off to find Sammy and reunite him with Corby. At least one thing was clear, he told himself. Whatever Yash said, he was pretty sure the Grozny had Timur’s head and their new leader was using it to inspire them. He clenched his fists in frustration. If Yash had done what he suggested at the beginning and burned Timur’s body, none of this would be happening. Emir or not, the man was infuriating! And maybe dangerous, too. Wasn’t it strange how little concern he’d shown over his copemate’s failure to return? Maybe he didn’t want her back?
There was a lot he didn’t know. Trying to make sense of what was going on was like attempting to read a book with half the words missing. The way things were turning out was so disappointing. Roxanne and he had hoped the Soterion would bring relief and happiness, not confusion and mistrust. How perceptive had Padmar’s dying warning been!
Sammy wasn’t able to tell Cyrus much he didn’t already know and, after agreeing to join his friend in the ambush force setting off that evening, the young man returned to his dormitory to catch up on lost sleep. Cyrus got round Yash’s inevitable veto on their joining up by going to Bahm directly. Without hesitation, the bluff Konnel agreed to Cyrus and Sammy being part of his force. Hardly a surprise, thought Cyrus. I reckon he’d be relieved if neither Sammy nor I made it back inside the walls alive.
The battle that took place the following morning was one of the easiest and most decisive in all Alba’s history. In fact, it was more of a massacre than a true battle. As expected, the Zeds neared the settlement not long after dawn. Their chanting was audible long before they came into view, and this time the words were clear: “Malik Timur he not dead! He led Grozny with his head!”
“Told you,” whispered Cyrus to Sammy, who was crouched by his side with a hand on Corby’s collar. They were about forty paces from the nearest Zeds as they swaggered by. “They cut off the head and they’re using it. But I haven’t seen it, have you?”
“No. Sakamir didn’t say she’d seen it, neither.”
Once out of the woods, Jamshid brought his band to a halt. Realising a frontal assault on the moss-covered concrete walls was impossible, he moved left and made for the small Patrol Gate. Behind them, the shadowing force of Albans advanced to the fringe of the trees.
Moments later, a single arrow rose into the air above the walls. One of the Zeds saw it and pointed at it with a rusty pike. It was his last gesture. Even before Yash’s arrow hit the ground, dozens of others were speeding towards the unprotected barbarians. The majority struck home, piercing thighs, backs, necks and shoulders with dreadful thuds.
Half the Grozny fell at once, some killed outright, others yelling in pain and savage fury as they tried to pluck the barbs from their bleeding flesh. Immediately, the Albans rushed from their cover to finish them off with axe and sword.
Jamshid, at the head of his force and furthest from the rain of arrows, had remained unharmed. When he saw what had happened, he froze in astonishment before running back towards the safety of the woods.
Cyrus and Sammy had hurried forward with the others as the arrows fell. One thrust of Cyrus’ spear ended the agonised writhing of a Zed trying to pull an arrow from his throat. Corby pinned another to the ground while Sammy dispatched him with his new sword, a present from Jannat.
Cyrus was going over to congratulate his young friend, when he noticed an odd-looking Zed in a fur hat sprinting for the trees to his right. “No you don’t!” he muttered, and set off in pursuit.
Sensing someone was on his tail and closing fast, Jamshid stopped and turned to face his pursuer. Cyrus raised his spear. The Zed saw he was trapped and, in a gesture of wild desperation, flung his gut-ripper in the general direction of his pursuer. It missed by a good five feet, and Cyrus closed in for the kill.
Now unarmed, Jamshid turned and ran for his life, expecting a spear to bury itself between his shoulder blades at any moment. It never came. As Cyrus was on the point of launching his missile, he was distracted by a cry behind him. Sammy! He glanced round to see that the gut-ripper had skidded off the stony ground and rebounded against Sammy’s leg. No bone was broken, but blood was flowing from a gash two fingers long below his left knee.
By the time Cyrus turned to face his opponent, the fur-clad Zed had disappeared into the forest. Corby whined pitifully, unsure whether to stay to look after his new master or chase after the man who had harmed him. His protective instincts got the better of him and, sitting beside Sammy, he licked at the tears of pain running down the young man’s face.
Sammy was the Albans’ only injury. Later that morning, twenty-four slain Zeds were carried to the ravine and hurled into the abyss. Bahm, the operation’s leader, was hailed as a hero, and Yash overlooked Cyrus’ participation in the fight. No one was blamed for the escape of a single enemy, although Cyrus was angry with himself for not having finished off the strange-looking creature when he had the opportunity.
More galling was the teasing he had to endure. So there might be a larger force of Zeds behind the smaller one, might there? Bahm mocked, only half in jest. And what about this Timur head business? asked Yash. It was supposed to inspire them, wasn’t that what Cyrus had said? Well, it hadn’t done them much good, had it? They’d even forgotten to bring it with them!
Cyrus kept his anger to himself. They might laugh at him now, but one day he’d be proved right. The head was still out there. Moreover, he was certain the blundering fools who’d wandered into Bahm’s ambush did not control the totem. They were typical brainless Zeds. Someone, somewhere – a leader of unusual insight and subtlety – had sent them. But why? Surely not simply to avenge Timur’s death? No. This unseen commander was using the head to further their own ambitions. And as these ambitions involved Alba, they must also involve the Soterion.
Cyrus gave a slight shudder. He was essentially a straightforward person who liked direct paths and clear-cut decisions. Uncertainty troubled him. In the end, he decided that he’d settle nothing by worrying about it and hurried off to attend to the practical matter of Sammy’s wound.
Fortunately for Sakamir and Potr, Xsani’s Eyes spotted them before the Grozny. The lookouts rounded up the pair in the customary manner and brought them before their Malika. That first meeting was a thrilling encounter. Two highly intelligent, extremely ambitious women circling each other like wild beasts, each fascinated by the creature before them. They both realised they would be stronger together, but neither trusted the other.
Why was Sakamir here? the Makila asked.
She wanted to join the Zeds. She would lead them to save the Soterion.
The Soterion? Xsani had heard of this and wanted to know more.
Sakamir gave a brief outline of the contents of the secret vault, its books and how they contained all the knowledge and wisdom of the Long Dead.
Did they mention a dumbman in a round yellow hat? asked Xsani.
No, Sakamir had never heard of such a person. But she did know that somewhere within that library lay details of the Salvation Project. The Malika hadn’t heard of the Salvation Project? Well, it was something the Long Dead had been working on as they died out. It w
ould abolish the Death Month and allow people to live way beyond their eighteenth winter, as they used to. Perhaps even seeing one hundred winters.
Xsani was impressed. And this Soterion, so full of powerful information and ideas, was that what Timur had been after?
Yes. And a Constant named Cyrus, who could read, was working on it. Sakamir said he was well-meaning but stupid. He would fail.
Why?
Because all Constants were stupid. Sakimir’s copemate –
Her what?
Friend, companion, breeding partner, Sakamir clarified. Did the Kogon have a different name?
They did. ‘Kumforts’. It had nothing to do with breeding.
Sakamir liked that idea. She explained how the Constants of Alba, led by the conservative Bahm, were getting fed up with Cyrus. She was afraid that before long they would throw him out and destroy the Soterion. With it would go all chance of long life and power…
Xsani’s interest was growing. Could Sakamir read?
She was learning, she replied. So when the Zeds took over Alba with the help of her copemate, she would then destroy him, capture the Soterion and pass on its information to Xsani …
Xsani did not like the sound of that. If they were to work together, it had to be on an equal footing. Sakamir had to teach Xsani to read.
Alright, she would. And she would become a Zed.
And accept a Z tattoo?
Of course.
When that was done, the Malika concluded, they could progress.
Sakamir refused to be held down for her tattooing. She even kept her eyes open as the red-hot Z sizzled against her forehead and her nose filled with the stench of her own burning flesh.
“Imprethive,” said Xsani, standing directly in front of the new arrival and observing her closely. “You are one of uth now.”
Sakamir angrily brushed away the tears of pain that ran down her thin cheeks. “I’m glad. You and I will make a powerful partnership, Xsani.”
The Malika gave no direct response. Instead, she unsheathed a knife hanging at Jinsha’s waist and held it, handle first, for Sakamir to grasp. “If you are a Thed,” she said with a smile, “you mutht hate Conthanth, yeth?”
“Yes, I do. They’re feeble. Pathetic.”
“Pathetic, yeth. There ith one of thethe pathetic creaturth bethide you. A dumbman, too.” She pointed the knife handle towards the dismal figure of Potr, bound hand and foot and bleeding from the several wounds he had received during his capture. “Thutch a puny thing could never be a breeding thlave, tho he ith of no uthe to uth. Kill him.”
Sakamir took the knife and, pausing only to decide where best to strike, plunged it upwards into Potr’s heart from beneath his ribs. For an instant, he stood transfixed, his eyes staring in horrified disbelief, before crumpling to the floor. Sakamir stooped, pulled the knife from the body, wiped it on her filthy tunic and handed it back to Jinsha.
“And now?” she said, turning to Xsani. For the first time in her adult life, the glee in her eyes matched the smile on her lips.
“And now,” replied Xsani enigmatically, “And now we can progreth.”
As Xsani lay in bed waiting for dawn, she reflected upon recent events. It was strange, she thought, how for so long day had followed day, moon had followed moon in the same cycle of watching and moving and fighting. Then, without warning, everything had changed. The usual patterns were broken. Customs and practices that had served the tribe for generations had been set aside. In this new world, her task was not simply to preserve, as previous Malikas had done, but to lead. Something momentous was happening, she was sure of it, and she had to be at the very centre. In control.
It all revolved around this Soterion. Having heard the explanation of the turncoat Sakamir – if the woman was telling the truth, of course – she understood why it was so important. No wonder Timur had wanted to get hold of it! Living for one hundred winters – that was for ever! She wondered, in a lighter moment, whether her friend in the round yellow hat had lived so long.
But it was not just a matter of length of life, but of power and glory. Once she had the Soterion, the might of the Long Dead would be hers. The skill that had constructed these buildings and fashioned those brilliant objects that lay rusting or broken, all that would be at her command. The Long Dead must have used weapons as well, or how else could they have defeated their enemies? Such awful majesty for her alone!
She already had the Grozny under her rule. Now she had this renegade Constant, who promised to open Alba’s gates to her and her allies. Sakamir and her idiotic kumfort – ‘copemate Yash’ she had called him – would see to that. Apparently Yash had believed Sakamir when she told him that together, with Zed help, they would seize the Soterion. Together! Pah! What dolts these dumbmans were!
Sakamir was in league with the Kogon. She had been tattooed, so there was no turning back. But in the end it didn’t matter – she would be killed as soon as they were inside Alba and she was no longer useful. Two could play the betrayal game, couldn’t they?
Seeing a watery light seep through the broken windows of her headquarters, Xsani shook Jinsha awake. “Come, my kumfort,” she said, smoothing down the young woman’s hair, “there ith tho much to do. You and I mutht learn to read, muthn’t we? And maybe we thould do ath Thakamir thayth and find thome more allieth.”
Jinsha yawned. “More dumbmans, Malika?”
“Perhapth. We could uthe my thaddow, Giv.”
Her kumfort groaned. “But he’s so gormless, Malika!”
Xsani smiled. “Yeth, I know. But thometimeth it taketh a thtupid perthon to catch a thtupid perthon, Jintha. Bethideth, Giv adoreth me, and I like that.”
“But don’t I adore you, Malika?” said Jinsha, sliding closer to her mistress.
“Of courth. But thath different, ithn’t it?”
The Constants possessed only half-remembered fragments of Long Dead medical knowledge. The link between dirt and disease was generally understood, but not the bacteriology behind it. Remembering how Zavar had died of his wounds early in the Mission, Cyrus had spent ages searching the Soterion library for a text that explained how his friend’s death might have been prevented. He found what he was looking for by accident. Moving a book entitled First World War – which meant nothing to him – he came across a thin, brightly coloured pamphlet entitled First Aid and Basic Medicine: What Every Parent Needs to Know. The individual words just about made sense, but together … what was ‘first aid’? He soon learned, and rapidly gained a fair grasp of the subject.
Treating Sammy’s wound was the first time Long Dead information was put to practical use. The gash was deep and long. The traditional Constant treatment for such injuries was to wash them in water and bind them up, perhaps with some herb or other laid over the incision. The results were, at best, uncertain. While some made a complete recovery, many died of septicaemia, as Zavar had done. Following the instructions in his pamphlet, Cyrus did things differently. He cleaned the wound thoroughly with boiled water before stitching it with a needle he had held over a flame. To his relief and delight, the cut healed cleanly and Sammy was walking comfortably within a few days.
In normal times, such a rapid recovery would have been a major talking point among Albans. But these were far from normal times. Despite Bahm’s ambush victory, or because of it, an air of unease hung over the community. Everyone knew what lay behind it, though only Bahm and his colleagues spoke of it openly. The Soterion.
As Bahm never tired of telling people, since the opening of that wretched vault there had been more trouble than anyone could remember. An Emir had been murdered and his replacement executed for treason; Alba had been temporarily controlled by a Zed; the copemate of the new Emir had disappeared and was probably dead; Zeds were making direct attacks on the settlement; and every day a stranger took off some of the most able members of the community, including the Emir, in order to teach them how to read books that would allow them to live for ever.
It was p
ernicious nonsense! What was wrong with living for eighteen winters before slipping off quickly like everyone else? The Death Month was bad enough without stretching it out for years and years. How horrible it’d be to grow old slowly, gradually getting feebler and feebler and of no use to anyone. Anyway, living for ever hadn’t done the Long Dead any good, had it, despite all their clever technology? Where were they now? Gone!
No, growled Bahm, the old Constant ways were best. With them, everyone knew where they were and everything had its place. Cyrus and his Soterion were nothing but trouble.
Such talk wouldn’t have mattered much if Yash had had a firm grip on the situation. To Cyrus’ dismay, the Emir seemed hardly to notice the grumbling. He didn’t agree with it, Cyrus was sure, because he came regularly to the classes and was making steady if slow progress with his reading and writing. It was as if Yash tolerated Bahm’s comments because they undermined Cyrus.
Seven days after Bahm’s victory over the Zeds, the breach between Cyrus and Yash widened still further. It had rained all night and was still drizzling the next morning when the two met as they sheltered beneath the wall next to the patrol gate.
“No news of Sakamir, I suppose?” asked Cyrus.
Yash looked at him suspiciously. “No. Why?”
“Well, I’m concerned, Yash. She’s been gone a while.”
“I’ve been told she talked to you before she went, Cyrus. Is that true?”
The remark caught Cyrus by surprise. Yash had previously shown little concern over his missing copemate, so what was he driving at now? “We did have a few words, yes.”
“About what?”
“About the Grozny Zeds. She asked about their tactics and so on. Because of Timur, she thought there might still be a few remaining in the area and she wanted to be prepared.” That’s all true, thought Cyrus. There was no need to mention the head.