Beyond the Wall of Time (37 page)

“Mensaya,” he replied gruffly. “Though, as there is no one left alive, it is a town no more. I doubt its name will be remembered
in future by anyone but me.”

There seemed a deep sadness in his voice, and Lenares wondered about the man.
How can a man so steeped in evil display such compassion?

The travellers spent an hour or so gathering food in the village. It was risky work and they had to choose with care the buildings
they entered. More than one house groaned and settled lower while one or another of the group fossicked around inside, but
no one suffered injury apart from Tumar, who ended up with a nail in his foot. Lenares saw many dead people, most with fear
etched permanently on their faces.
They didn’t have to die
, she told herself.
I must be able to do something about this.

Perhaps you can
, a familiar voice whispered.
But first you must talk to the Omeran. He is the key.

“Mahudia?” But the voice had withdrawn, all hint of her presence erased, and within moments it seemed a product of her wandering
mind.
Hah
, she thought.
Rouza always told me I had no imagination.

Yet the voice—or her imagination—was right. She and Torve needed to have words.

Stoneheart. Stoneheart.
Torve repeated the word in his mind as though pounding a rock into his own temple.

Torve Stoneheart.
His stone heart clenched a little at the repetition, but only a little.

With one stroke the Emperor had cut him away from the world of men, a world of companionship and respect to which he had only
just been allowed entry. Once again he had been rendered something other, a mere animal, even less than an animal. Lenares
had little to do with him these days, a clear sign she was unable to face what he had become.

Yet there was still a great deal to be thankful for, foremost amongst the list being the death of the Emperor. The horrors
of his obscene research were finally over. Torve thought of the last time he had walked through a devastated town: Raceme
had been severely damaged by whirlwinds and the Emperor had taken advantage of the confusion by seeking out victims trapped
in the wreckage and torturing them to death in his insane quest for immortality. Torve had been forced by his inbred obedience
to do dreadful things and he would never be rid of the feel of flesh under his fingers, nor the memory of the indignity of
the human body involuntarily revealed. So many things burned in his mind: the fear and the pleading of his victims, the implacability
of his master, the light going out in the eyes of the newly dead.

And yet… his only friend was dead, the man he had hated and loved, and Torve’s grief threatened to obliterate every other
feeling in his confused heart. How could he grieve for such a butcher? But how could he fail to lament the loss of his other
half, his only childhood friend? And whom could he talk to? Now his companions knew something of his master—though by no means
all of it—they would not understand his feelings.

Torve was not sure he understood them himself.

Preoccupied with his thoughts, he found himself at the lower end of the village, where the last houses—or what until yesterday
had been houses—gave way to pasture. The stink of dead animals wafted across from the fields. He’d always been sensitive to
smell and doubted the others would be too troubled by it.

“Whaddaya doing here, mister?” piped a small voice.

A lifetime of control over his body prevented the Omeran from jumping with fright. Slowly, carefully, he turned to face what
might be a deadly adversary.

It was a little girl. She stood in the doorway of the last house on the street, her pink dress ragged and torn, smeared with
blood and dirt. The house behind her had partially collapsed, but it had survived the storm and earthquake with at least two
rooms intact.

“Ma says everybody’s asleep,” said the girl, scowling at him. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Because I’m hungry and looking for food,” Torve said to her, squatting on his haunches the better to look her in the face.
She had a nasty bruise above one eye, and one of her arms hung awkwardly at her side. Sprained at the least. “Do you have
any food?”

“We already ate all the food. Some of it smelled funny. Pa was sick all night.”

“How many of you are there?”

The girl blinked a couple of times as she looked into his eyes, clearly unable to give him a number.
That many?

“Can I come in and meet your ma and pa?” Torve asked.

“No, they’re asleep,” said the girl, and turned away.

“Asleep? Do you mean sleeping, or dead?” Torve couldn’t think of any tactful way of asking the question.

The girl gave him no answer, having been swallowed by the shadows. Torve followed her inside, once again thankful that his
master was gone. He could not bear to think what the Emperor might have done to the little girl if she was indeed on her own.

The air was warm and close in the dark interior. The girl stood in one corner, tugging on the shirt of a figure lying prone
on the floor. “Pa, Pa, wake up,” she said.

“Leave him be, Py,” came a woman’s weary voice from deep in the shadows. “He needs his sleep.”

“But there’s a man. A black man. He smells like poo.”

“I’m afraid she’s right,” Torve said, peering into the darkness. “I’m sorry to come unannounced into your house, but I’m looking
for food.”

“We have none,” said the woman. “But we have swords and knives. Go away before we use them.”

A series of small noises issued from all around the room. The people probably thought they were being quiet, but Torve could
identify eight of them by their movement.

“As you wish,” he said, backing away. “I didn’t mean to trouble anyone from this village.”

“We’re not from this village,” said the little girl. “We’re from a boat. Our boat crashed.”

“Away with you, stranger,” a man said. “Go try your luck somewhere else.”

“Very well.” Torve repeated his acquiescence. “Please do not be concerned. I am leaving.”

“No need for that,” said another voice, a voice he recognised. “Come in and sit down, Torve.”

“You know him?” said two or three from the shadows.

It took the Omeran a few moments to place the voice. “Kilfor?” he asked, trying to see the speaker.

“Aye, and his father,” growled another familiar voice. “Sit on this bench, lad. Shove over, Kilfor.”

“You shove over, old man. Your backside’s wide enough to make space for three people.”

Sauxa grunted, but moved over enough for Torve to perch on the end of the bench.

“I thought you’d left us,” Torve began, unsure of the reception his words would win him. “You objected to assisting Heredrew
in his intention of bringing down the gods.”

“Call him by his real name, boy,” Sauxa said. “Call him Kannwar, ulcers to his soul, and name the devil. Call him the Undying
Man, the great enemy of Faltha. Let us have no soft talk, no hidden identities and agendas. He’s the Destroyer, and that’s
that.”

“Is it true?” a woman asked. “Is Lord Sauxa telling the truth? Are you really travelling with the Undying Man?”

“Yes, ma damme, we are.”
Lord Sauxa?

“What will he do to put all this to rights?” she asked him. “We survived a great storm at sea and were helped from our ship
by these two men, only to be assailed by an earthquake and a great wave from the sea. This is not right! This is not natural!
Everyone knows this! Something magical is happening. Someone is assaulting our fair country, and we wish to offer our great
Lord of Bhrudwo any support he requires.”

Torve turned to the man sitting beside him. “You saved these people from a shipwreck?”

“Not really,” Kilfor said. “They were trapped in their cabin, and when we came across them they may have been in some danger
from rising water, but I don’t think they would have died.”

“Course they would have,” his father exclaimed. “Even if the tide hadn’t got ’em, the great waves would have. We broke in
through the hull and let ’em out. Heroes, that’s us.” The man’s eyebrows waggled in self-congratulation.

“You’re a fool, old man,” Kilfor said genially. “Or should I say, you’re a fool, Lord Sauxa. All we did was let them out.”

Torve smiled, then turned to the woman. “The Lord of Bhrudwo is already searching for those responsible, ma damme. He is in
this village as we speak.”

“Here?” a couple of the men exclaimed. “He is here now?” Torve could not see their faces in the gloom, but they did not sound
entirely happy.

“Ah… perhaps the Lord of Bhrudwo does not need our help if he has such great men as Lord Sauxa and his son to aid him,” the
voluble woman said after a noticeable pause. “We’ll just remain here, out of his way. Perhaps we could tidy up the village
after he leaves. Do you think he would object if we settled here for a time?”

“I cannot answer for him,” Torve began.

“But I can,” said Heredrew as he stepped through the door and stood in the middle of the room, bringing his own light with
him. Everyone gasped, and the Bhrudwans cowered on the floor.

“The great enemy of Faltha?” Heredrew said, his voice gentle.

“You might be old, but your hearing’s good,” Sauxa said, unabashed.

“I won’t be ridiculed in front of my subjects,” Heredrew said, not so gently. The magical light pulsed around him.

“Then stop being ridiculous,” Sauxa snapped. “These people have asked you a question. If you heard my insults, you heard the
question. So, great lord, what’s your answer?”

The shipwreck victims looked from the bright figure to the belligerent old man facing him down, and Torve could see them reassessing
their view of “Lord” Sauxa. Perhaps they now saw him as a great magician, a trusted companion, maybe even a rival to the Undying
Man.

“You are right, my friend,” Heredrew said, clapping the surprised Sauxa on the shoulder, then addressing the others. “I owe
my loyal and sorely tried subjects an answer. It would ease my mind greatly if you would make your home here, temporarily
at least, until you feel able to travel back to your true homes. Only two things would I ask of you: to render assistance
to anyone left alive, and to bury the dead with all ceremony. Is this acceptable to you?”

Self-conscious shuffles and awed mumblings of assent were offered in answer.

“Easy to lord it over such a spineless bunch,” Sauxa muttered to his son. Heredrew flared even brighter in response, but held
his temper.

“Very well then,” said the Lord of Bhrudwo. “I will leave an imprint of my seal in the town. Should anyone challenge my agreement
with you, show them the seal. In the meantime, Torve, Lenares is looking for you. Are you coming with us?”

“Beg pardon, great lord,” said one of the men in the shadows. “There is someone in this room hiding from you. He threatened
to kill anyone who betrayed him.”

Heredrew spread his light even further, illuminating the whole room. “Really? Who is this person?”

“Him, lord,” said a woman, pushing at the shoulder of an older man who sat hunched over, head buried in his arms. “He’s the
captain of our ship. He ran it aground, and he didn’t behave like a sea captain ought.”

“Carry on,” said the Lord of Bhrudwo.

“Locked us in our cabin, he did,” said another man. “Told us he didn’t care if we lived or died. Then, when the ship beached,
he refused to come to our aid though we pounded on the door and begged him for help, while all around us the ship creaked
and groaned fit to bust. ’Twas only these gentlemen saved us from the death he’d left us to suffer.”

“Does this captain have a name?”

The hunched man did not reply, and refused to raise his head.

“His name is Kidson, great lord. Captain Kidson. Though he’s no captain now.”

“Indeed not. And how much longer he remains alive depends on how much truth he’s prepared to tell. But not right now; we have
many other things to do. You, Kidson, will come with us.”

The Undying Man closed his fist and drew it toward himself. Kidson cried out, then stood up jerkily as though he’d lost control
of his limbs. A wet patch on his breeches showed he’d definitely lost control of his bladder.

“I… locked them in… for their… safety,” Kidson wheezed.

“I did not invite you to speak,” Heredrew said equably. “I’ll hear from you at my convenience, not yours.” Kidson began to
make choking sounds. “Until I determine your innocence or guilt, you will be silent.”

Continued gurgling followed this statement; the men and women who had accused Kidson looked on, horror in their faces.

“Don’t hurt him, bad man,” said the small girl.

“If this man tells the truth he has nothing to fear,” Heredrew said, his voice shaded with anger.

“You’re frightening us,” the little girl continued. “Go away.”

A man and a woman clutched at the girl. “Forgive her, great lord,” the man said, his eyes averted, as if that would protect
him should the Undying Man take exception to his plea.

Torve sensed that Heredrew would ordinarily have made an example of Kidson and this man both—Torve’s master, the Emperor of
Elamaq, certainly would have—but was forbearing because of Stella.

Kidson continued to choke; his face began to turn blue.

“Can’t my subjects remain silent for even a moment?” Heredrew said. “Can they not be quiet and reflect upon their lord’s goodness
and his gift to them? Can they not be grateful that he will deal justly with this would-be murderer?”

The frightened folk nodded at each question.

“Then they can also keep out of sight in this building until I and my companions have left. Does anyone question this?”

The folk demonstrated they had learned their lesson.

Torve followed Heredrew and his prisoner out into the sunlight. They were followed by Sauxa and Kilfor.

“I thought I told you to keep out of sight.” The Undying Man’s voice was ice-cold.

“You don’t get to tell us what to do,” Sauxa said tartly. Kilfor winced.

“I have no idea why the Most High tolerates you Falthans. From your queen down to the most insignificant peasant, you are
unfailingly insolent and defiant. You do not seem to understand that you are living as a guest in my country. I make the rules.
If you do not wish to abide by them, I can enforce the penalties due to disobedience. They are very severe.”