The Sin Eaters

by Aaron Summers

  He stared at the spear in his hand. Those hands lost their confidence along his wandering road from that awful day when the lightning found him. He could make them stop if he focused. They shook now. There was a cost to this message. How many folk had he killed, or let Camdzic kill, or simply let die, in defense of peace?

  It did not matter. More would die before he would let the Dragons inflict the lightning on his world. The others did not understand because they had not felt its absolute violence. It could end their world.

  The horns stopped. He scanned the horizons, finding only a cornflower sky. The dead city that once polluted this green pasture waited to the east. It should be burned. They would not risk the fires out here, though. A dusty cloud rose from the south. The Dragons arrived early. The watchers must have seen them and sent notice to the waiting Suzerain.

  The Duma would be ready, though they still did not know what to expect. For ten years they dealt with the messengers of these hidden places no Suzerain had ever seen. Only their word, the sheer distance from the Steppe through the Gates of Kitay into the Forbidden Plains beyond, and the fury of the lightning kept the agreement whole. He had learned what forbidden meant when the Dragons came.

  The tribes had no taste for war. But as Fen thought about the countless people below, he knew that the growing Suzerain would soon be too numerous for their small world. Most children survived their cancer now. Most who did survive rarely fell ill ever again. All who survived, changed. They would spill into the Hollow Lands. They would move south across the gobi where people lived beneath the earth. No one could stop them.

  He sighed, stretched his aching side, and ran down the hill to join his vast tribe.

  The messengers from the south reached the grasses that all Suzerain understood as the natural edge of their temporary nation. There were fewer than usual, only five, but they still wore the same silent black armor as all messengers. Simple vermillion cloaks draped their shoulders. The solid eyes of oni masks watched the foreign world they now marched through.

  They struggled to push and pull a cart through the patchwork of tents. A large shape similar to the standing stones rested on the cart. Long shining silver handles jutted from each side so that the whole thing looked like a platform for a king to ride on. The shape’s rectangular body tapered at one end, ending in a thick copper ring large enough for a child to crawl through. The other side ended in a long slab perpendicular to the main body. The whole structure looked like the hammer of a giant’s child. The mottled black surface reminded Fen of the spear in his hand.

  He and a thousand others watched the procession as they wheeled the gift towards the Duma’s supposed center. He heard the messengers mutter their twanging Mandarin curses as they struggled past one obstacle after another. Had one said something about roads? No, the word was “path”. He reminded himself to thank Lundoo again for finding someone to teach him what little Mandarin anyone knew.

  They reached a towering lavender tent that sprawled across an area the size of several home tents. A single Berian tree, stripped of its foliage but otherwise unaltered as it sat on its vast root ball, propped the tent’s center. The Berians brought the trunk with great effort from their distant home. The flaps were rolled up to allow cooling winds through the warm space.

  So many people crowded into the tent that the messengers struggled to approach the center. Several chieftains sat on the ground near that center. They rose when the procession halted more than a length from them.

  “Welcome!” said the Umman Manda.

  The coal-black woman, like all her people, carried the same name. She spoke for all at once.

  “Umman Manda!” cried the larger portion of the tent’s throbbing crowd.

  “Welcome.” The somber peoples of the Mothers Jodenna did not call out as their ruling mothers spoke.

  Fen slipped through the crowd to stand near the chieftains. He knew he could stand with them. Though his tribe still lived and named itself Leyevi, he was no longer their chieftain. They were each their own chieftain.

  “Shanan of the Manoack welcomes you.”

  The croaking voice echoed from a thick-bellied man with a frog’s face. His jowls flapped as he tried to form the trickier sounds of the borrowed common tongue. Fen knew that even his name was a translation from the odd grunting, croaking, and mewling sounds those people made in their homes. People were changing. Such was the way of things.

  The leader of the messengers stepped forward. He removed his helmet, revealing a pale yellow face with small black eyes, and dipped his head in respect. He held his demon’s head under his arm. Its protruding tusks made its wide grin inhumanly haunting. The helmet shared its owner’s small black eyes.

  Sadanandan loomed above the crowd. His gnarled head brushed the tent’s canopy. Fen saw more evolyutsiya in him than all the rest combined. Only the Running Folk were more different now. Shanan of the Manoack might look like a creature from a story, but he was human enough. Sadanandan stood at least twice as tall as Fen. His head jutted forward from a neck made entirely of muscle. His long arms drooped in front of him as his knuckles brushed the grasses.

  Fen had seen the man fight and knew the stance was a ruse. Sadanandan brought death. Numerous blurred tattoos covered the brute’s body, each a boast of some person he killed, some tribe he conquered in his rambling pursuit of might. A crude oni mask was tattooed on his hard naked abdomen. All knew he could crush the Dragons’ precious armor with one hand. They knew because he spoke of it every chance he had. He swung an arm at the guests.

  “You are here to tell us how to live,” he rumbled.

  The Mothers Jodenna turned at the same time but did not speak. Shanan’s jowls jiggled as he laughed. How could any man be so fat? The Umman Manda murmured. Their voice spoke.

  “You are here with a gift. What is this?”

  Fen ignored the small ritual as he looked for other chieftains. There should be more. This was the Ten Finger Duma. The messengers arrived early, it was true, but the Thundercloud carried messages to all the tribes many months before. He moved beside Shanan.

  “The Leyevi are here,” he said. “The Oshebar. The Dara. Those of the Steppe. We all speak.”

  The leader nodded. He released his brooch, letting the cloak slip from his shoulders. He spread the garment on the ground, set his helmet beside it as a guardian, and sat down. The other messengers remained standing beside the cart with their helmets on. Fen’s skin crawled. His eyes darted from messenger to messenger.

  Sadanandan swung another arm as thick as a tree limb. His rough Berian voice rumbled.

  “You are new to us. Tell us your name.”

  “Wuwei of the Forty Dragons says thank you for this Duma,” the man said as he pressed his open palm to his bowed forehead.

  “Welcome to the Ten Finger Duma,” the Mothers Jodenna said together as they waggled their triple-jointed fingers. “This is a good year. It will be a good Duma. Ten is the number of what may be.”

  “The Dragons thank the Mothers Jodenna for this welcome. We thank Sadanandan, the Manoack, the Umman Manda, the Leyevi, the Oshebar, the Dara, those of the Steppe, and all Suzerain. The tradition is strong. The Forty Dragons wish to continue the agreement in peace. We offer a gift.”

  This man spoke well. Few outsiders could learn the common tongue like this. Even the whiplash accent of the Dragons was gone. Something was wrong. Fen stepped forward.

  “What is this thing you bring?”

  The chieftains frowned as he spoke. They did not try to stop him. All people could speak, just as all people could show their distaste. Fen felt the stare of all the Umman Manda. He shook his head against its soft communal influence. This thing must be said.

  “A story for your children’s children’s children. The Suzerain grow. I know the thorny figure of Leyevi Fen Enkidu. You work diligently to maintain the peace.”

  “Tell us,” Sadanandan said.

  “We know the story of a king from a land beyond the Hollows. T
here was an island called Angliya full of proud people called Celt. There were the Anartes, the Cotini, the Volcae, the Carni, the Gaul, the Brigantii, and many more. This is like the Suzerain.”

  He smoothed the cloak’s rumpled edges. The crowd waited. Sadanandan closed his gaping mouth.

  “There was an empire called Rome. They tried to conquer the world. Some tribes fell and others rose.”

  He pressed one palm to the ground and lifted the other into the air. His armor clinked softly as he moved. What made it different from the armors of the past? It had never made a sound before.

  “They could not unite. Rome killed their families again and again. One day, a boy rose from among them. He united them with a magic sword.”

  Wuwei rose and gripped the copper ring in both hands. The breathless crowd murmured as he spoke the taboo word.

  “The Dragons do not believe in magic any more than the Suzerain do. It is only a story. The sword was thrust into a stone. Only a king could draw the sword. Many men tried,” he nodded to the Umman Manda and the Mothers Jodenna, “and women folk. Only this boy succeeded. He united his tribes into a kingdom that lived a thousand years until the storms consumed it.”

  The waiting messengers began twisting the four poles that jutted from the cart. The ring rose from Wuwei’s grip. The device inclined and then slid from the cart, slamming deep into the ground. It stood alone like a pillar from the Ring of Stones. More gooseflesh crawled up Fen’s aching legs. The messengers retreated with the cart.

  “You are many peoples,” Wuwei continued. “The Forty Dragons are one people. You are new. We are as old as history. We have seen how good a thing like the Suzerain can be. It can also be bad. We offer this gift. You must unite. Whoever can wield this weapon should be your king.”

  The hushed voices erupted as curses filled the air. People shouted over each other to shout at the blasphemer. The chieftains tried to calm their peoples but their voices faded into the roar. Even Sadanandan, who terrified all who stood near him, could not make himself heard.

  Wuwei waited. The yelling quieted. Someone screamed from the crowd.

  “We will have no king!”

  The chieftains nodded.

  “We would have no king,” they said together as though they were all Umman Manda.

  “You are Hollow Folk,” Shanan said. “Your ways brought lightning to the world. The Steppe will not be like the Hollows. Live in your caves. Leave the green earth to the Suzerain. Such is the way of things.”

  Wuwei stepped forward and kneeled.

  “We do not wish to insult your ways. The Suzerain are a special people. You are becoming a new thing. But… you will tear yourselves apart. The world beyond this Steppe is dangerous. There are things you do not yet know. Fen Enkidu knows of the lightning. The Berians know the lightning. It cages this world. You live in safety beneath a patch of sky. The lightning is spreading like a horde. Soon it will live here.”

  He paused, waiting for angry shouts that did not come.

  “I say, soon it will live here. You can scatter as tribes and die, or you can take your lives in your own ten fingers,” he curled his own into armored fists as if grasping their fate from thin air, “unite, and live.”

  Bile rose in Fen’s throat. The hairs on his arm pulled toward the standing gift. The Suzerain would decide soon, or most would, and then would act. His pulse beat in his neck. Would the chieftains agree with what their peoples decided or would new chieftains soon lead?

  “What does it do?” Camdzic shouted.

  She stood across the tent from Fen. Her proud scar, that gruesome badge of proof that she could slay a Dragon, glinted with fresh sweat.

  “It protects,” Wuwei said. “It is a tool we use to shield ourselves against the swarming hordes.”

  Hordes. A tightness clenched Fen’s chest. He forced a long breath. This was wrong. This man Wuwei said the right words but left space between them. No, he thought, remembering the Ring of Stones when his legs still failed him and his parents still lived. The space was always there. It was the man’s word that rose up for a while. The words were wrong. What was he truly saying?

  “How?” Camdzic said.

  “The Suzerain must learn this for themselves. It is your choice. Leave it here to rust. You will not offend.”

  He rose, replaced his helmet with a slight hiss, and shook the grass from his cloak as he draped it across his shoulders. His voice was clear despite the oni mask.

  “We propose a new agreement. Respect the boundaries. No more and no less. As thanks for the efforts taken to respect our lands, we weaken the penalty. Only the intruders die. We will not punish the tribe. With this Duma, we make a stronger bond.”

  His gloved hand clattered against his helmet as he signaled his respect a final time.

  “We accept,” the chieftains said.

  Sadanandan crossed the length between them in two long strides. The weapon’s copper ring looked like a child’s toy in his grip.

  “We need no king,” the giant bellowed. “But we will take your gift.”

  He pulled the ring with all the considerable strength that many had seen rip the limbs from rampaging bulls. The ring resisted before sliding up to expose a long copper rod. It clicked and then snatched free of his grip as it slammed back into the device. Four invisible seams bloomed with pulsing blue light. A screeching whir sounded. Fen stopped breathing. Four identical pieces of the shell fell away. White light blinded the breathless Suzerain.

  The whirring crescendoed into a single shattering note. Fen fell to his hands and knees as he vomited, gasped for breath, and vomited again. The first hammer blow fell on the stunned hordes of humanity.

  It boomed, paused, and boomed again. He smelled the rancid odor of scorched goat hides. The light dimmed. It wrapped itself around where the weapon had been. Sadanandan lay dead on the ground. A single black char ran from his face to his hips. The sky screamed.

  People scattered as the thundering grew. Fen’s entranced stare followed the blinding column of light through a burned hole in the tent. He found what he knew would be there, what he had learned to fear above all else. The black sky boiled. Whirlpools formed around a dozen other columns of bluish light spread around the whole Duma. The Endless Tribes were trapped in a ring of lightning.

  Electricity arced from the weapon in front of him to everything it could find. Bright fires burst to life in the tent’s canopy. The Berian tree burned. Someone screamed, the lightning flashed, and the scream stopped. The arcs climbed over each other like squirrels racing to a treetop until they merged into a lashing whip that struck at every living thing.

  Fen ran around the device. He could not see its form. Lightning licked at his shoulders. His muscles spasmed but he kept moving. A messenger, ghostly armor finally illuminated by the brilliance of the sky demons, stood staring at the beast of his own creation. Fen collided with him as the lashing lightning struck the spot where he had stood. The lightning whipped again and Fen rolled away in time for it to find the man.

  The messenger clapped. The lightning leapt from his hands to Fen as the chieftain sprang backwards. Pure energy sizzled against his scarred ribs. Fen landed, sprang back towards the messenger, and drove his palm into the messenger’s chin before he could clap again. His neck broke. He fell where he had died.

  Other messengers were running, trapped by their own destruction. They had not thought the Suzerain would try the weapon so quickly, Fen knew. They must have hoped it would force schisms between the arguing tribes. It would sit there for a season, or a year, or forever, while the tribes argued. These Dragons had no concept of the people they tried to contain. He glared at the crackling weapon. No, not contain. Destroy. Murder.

  Lightning skipped around the running messengers as the arcs fused into larger whips that lashed the angry sky. People fled to the outer ring as more lightning incinerated them. Soon, thousands of black burning corpses littered the plain at Ulanbatar. Each was a person Fen knew, or a member of a cousin tr
ibe, or a living, breathing human who only wanted to live free beneath the sky. Even Sadanandan had allowed the Suzerain to choose his path or not.

  Fen raced from the collapsing tent amid a storm of embers. Camdzic was gone. He looked up to see the sky fill with a thousand arcing bolts of power. He knew without thinking that the arcs would form into a single bolt from the heavens that could melt mountains. The koloss would come. Their world would die. That was how the cities died. That was how Lundoo told him that London died. The man could hardly speak as he told Fen the story. Some things were too awful for words. The lightning had to be stopped.

  He turned back to the ruined tent. The Berian tree was a tower of fire beside the blue-white column. He felt smaller arcs burn his back and shatter across his howling bones as he found Hemanta’s spear on the ground beside the vomit he had left behind.

  The lightning weapon pulsed. He felt its greedy pull on the weapon in his own hands. He turned and flung the final gift from his mother and his father at the column of blinding light. It screeched. Smoke spurted from somewhere inside it. Fire erupted from its core. The thundering light faded faster than it had come.

  Deprived of the unifying beam, the other pillars faltered and died. Final surges of lightning licked at the whitening clouds as the storm evaporated. The cornflower sky returned.

  Thousands still fled through the burning grasses and burning peoples. Their screams rang louder than the weapons that caused them. Down the southern path, he saw the fluttering vermillion cloaks of three messengers fleeing for home. Fen growled and ran after them.

  CHAPTER 25 - THE SIN EATERS

  The sun almost set before Eliza finished telling the story of her life. It hadn’t been that long, had it? They landed in the morning and reached the volcano’s summit before noon. Even with the perceived time dilation of Charlie’s serum, it couldn’t have been that long. An invisible claw wrapped itself around Eliza’s throat. She had been talking that long about herself, telling this vestigial creature all the awful things she hardly allowed herself to acknowledge.