Slow Turns The World (30 page)

“What a maker of mischief He is, to let us love so much.”

He ran down the staircase from the tower.  He could feel the hunter’s blood surging through him, lifting him beyond the realm of fear and pain.   He drew the long curved sword and slashed it through the air as he came before the gate.  The timber was already breached, the axe head flashing repeatedly as it widened the splintered crevice.  He watched its rhythm for a moment then sprang forward screaming.

“Barakanda!  Baraki!”

As the axe pulled back, he plunged the sword through the hole in a swift angry jab. There was a shout of pain and the blade came back bloodied, he saw the red stain drip but felt no sorrow or remorse.  He was no longer a hunter, but in this desperate time something more; something, fierce angry and possessed.    

“Barakanda!  Baraki!”

He lunged his blade again through the hole towards some shape that moved, but did not connect.  Then he winced and cried out as a spearhead thrust towards him and spiked his shoulder.  He recoiled from the point, then grasped and pulled the shaft from the unseen hands that held it, spun the weapon around and rammed it back through the cleft, screaming in pain and fury as he drove the dagger-point towards its target.    Another dreadful cry rose above his and then, as he made the final thrust, choked and gasped to silence.   

He pumped the spear back and forwards through the hole, angling it this way and that, trying to force back the axe bearers.  But then strong hands snatched it and pulled it from his grasp.  Torrin stood breathless, swaying, sweat dripping and mixing with the blood of his wounded shoulder.  He lifted the sword again but found it heavy and loose in his hand.  Pain stabbed at him as he raised the blade and made a new lunge towards the cleft.   Then the arrow came.  It struck the shoulder that was already bleeding, spun him around and sent him sprawling.  He fell back on a bank of snow, gasping; then tried to lift himself but slumped down again.   There were faces at the cleft now, watching him with angry eyes.   So what came now?  One more arrow to make a final end?  No, the axe blows again, the splintering wood.  No arrow.  Death would be slower than that; much, much slower.  

He felt the snow, damp and cool under him, and looked to the sky; deep morning blue with pinky wisps of sunrise cloud.  He heard the axe blows thudding, wood splintering, the shouts and barked orders on the quay.   He was strangely peaceful now; the anger burnt away, able to savour these last moments before the vengeful blows and the final torment began.   He closed his eyes and faces formed in some inner mist.  Faces that dissolved from one to another; Varna, Marasil, Valhad, Soola, and Varna again.  All lost now, all denied by the tolling bells of fate.  He could hear their sombre tone ringing in his mind, marking the slow beat of the death march.  He could hear it sounding in his ears, but not so slow or gentle now for it had become a more urgent clanging.   There were bells; ship’s bells, sounding alarm and many voices shouting in confusion.  The axe blows had ceased.

He made himself roll over, gasping with the pain, then rose onto his knees.   He managed to stand and then stumble back up the stair to a window-slit where he looked out across the water.  Ships were coming.  Low, sleek, ships; many of them, gliding swiftly, propelled by the quick rhythm of long oars.   Torrin knew their shape, recognised their form; the fleet of the Qualzes had come.   And he saw in his mind His Lordship in council with their king, the maps before them, the boxes of weapons and precious metal being loaded in their hold.  Here was the bargain, here were those who had watched for Torrin's signal.  

Their vessels were quick and deadly.  A storm of fiery arrows rained down on the ships of Nejital and they burst into lurid flame.  Men ran helpless on the quay before the city walls, with no refuge, as the hail of darts fell upon them.  There were fresh blows on the gate; desperate pleading hammerings, and shouted entreaties for sanctuary.   They were silenced before any benefactor could have responded, though Torrin often heard their pleading in his dreams.  It was a slaughter, a merciless extermination that was soon over.  The ships broke then sank, burning timbers hissing and steaming.  Bodies lay floating in the water, and strewn before the wall, pierced with many arrows.

He did not open the gates for the Qualzes but made his way painfully, propped up by Soola, to the king's chamber.  She dressed his wound while hammer blows sounded below; as the breach in the gate was enlarged. He cursed and grimaced as she tended him.

“Damn them,” he muttered, “damn them all.  I knew there was some foul purpose in this, I always knew it.  Well that is the end of it.  I've done all that His Lordship asked and there will be no more blood on my hands.”

“We all serve kings or chieftains,” she said with a shrug, “and we all must do their bidding, be it good or ill.  It has always been so.”

She looked out of the window, toward the rising sun, which turned her hair to gold.

“There are two more ships coming, of a different kind.  Another flag…”

Torrin rose, grimacing, and looked.  Two vessels approached with churning paddle wheels, and the flag of Etoradom, triumphantly unfurled.

Eventually, a small delegation of priests found them in the king's chamber.  

“You are the servant of Etoradom?  Who barred the gates against the heathens?”

A golden bowl flew at them across the room and sent them scurrying back down the stairs.  After some discussion, and tending of bruises, it was decided not to disturb the occupants of the chamber again.  

The time came to depart.  On the quay before the city Torrin held Soola's hands tightly in his own. Around them more ships, newly arrived from Etoradom, unloaded, and the occupying forces of the Qualzes looked on as their paymasters took possession of the city.

“I have spoken with the Captain of this ship,” said Torrin, “I have asked for two good men of his crew, men who can be trusted with your safety.  I have spoken with them, and believe they will do what is asked.  They will take you in small boat upriver, until you can find the Haranda again.  I have promised to pay them well to do this, and that I shall chop the manhood from them if a finger is laid upon you.”

“I want to go with you, you know I do.”  She spoke the words firmly but tears filled her eyes.

“This parting hurts me too,” he sighed, but then was firmer in his words,  “I must go to Etoradom a final time and then to the Vasagi.  I never made my wife a secret, or my one resolve to be with her again.”

“Can the men of the Vasagi not take two wives?”

“They cannot.”

“Then we must each go our way,” she gave that same smile he had seen before, when he had parted from her tribe and she had said her false goodbye.

“It must be goodbye this time,” he whispered to her, “you cannot follow me.”   Then he held her tightly to his breast and kissed her hair.

“Which ship is yours?” she asked, cheek pressed tight against him, eyes looking sadly along the quay.

“That one.  With the sail hoisted.  It is ready now, they are waiting just for me.”

“Is it a good ship?” she asked, a tremble in her voice, the tears running freely now.

“Aye, strongly made to weather all storms, just like you.”

He kissed her deeply, held her in one last iron-gripped embrace, and then went without looking back, jumping from the quay to the balustrade of the ship, with a pain inside that ripped his heart.

She watched the ship; the churning wake leaving a trail upon the water that lingered after it had passed from view around a headland.   Two men waited for her in an open boat.  she scrambled down, refusing their offers of help, and soon the oars made a gentle splashing rhythm that soothed the pain within.  They were quite handsome men; perhaps she would enjoy the journey after all.

Chapter 9

The populace rejoiced to see Him enter but his enemies were as cornered beasts that become savage and enraged.

The book of Tarcen. Ch. 41 V. 8

When they came to Hirege smoke was rising from the town in two columns.   Torrin steadied a telescope against the rigging and peered through to see the source of the burning.  There was a ship in the harbour that still smouldered, though it was now little more than a half drowned ribcage of burnt spars.  Beyond, in the square of the town, the marble dome of the temple was consumed by flame.  As they drew nearer, a crowd gathered on the quay, angry shouts could be heard, and then a few arrows fell impotently into the sea around them.  The gates of the castle were shut tight and blackened by fire.  A few bodies could be discerned, lying inertly on the ground close by, little streams of dark liquid seeping from them.   On the castle battlements figures waved frantically, and from a small cave at its base, an open boat put to sea.  A priest rowed urgently towards them, braving many arrows and angry taunts from the mob.

The priest struggled up the ship’s ladder, leaving his boat to drift away, and came gasping and panting onto the deck.  He looked around at the crew and the few priests travelling onboard, and spoke, pausing often to catch his breath.

“Have you come from Etoradom?”  They told him they had not, but were bound there next.

“Has news reached you of troubles there?” he asked.  No, they said, no news, for they had been departed many moons.

“One moon ago,” he told them, “a ship came bringing rumours.  They said that Etoradom was burning, that the people had risen against the church.  The story spread around the populace here and there was trouble in the streets.  We sent patrols out and punished them harshly but then their anger grew.  They came upon us with weapons and made siege at the castle gates.  They attack any ship that bears our emblem.  Those of the priesthood left in the castle need forces to relieve them, or ships of evacuation.  I was sent to tell you this, and to tell Etoradom of our plight if you will take me there.”

“Do you know any more of Etoradom and what has happened there?” asked Torrin.

“I do not.  We have had no word from the church, nor orders or instructions, since the news came.  But this talk of uprising is surely no more than lies; most likely spread by heretic pirates that have harried and slowed our ships on the crossings here.  The holy church will return to cleanse the impurity of these people, the Brothers of Redemption will have much of God's work to do.”

They turned northeast and set course for the havens of Etoradom.  The news from the priest disturbed Torrin greatly and he feared for the safety of Valhad and the other servants; he also wondered what fortunes had befallen His Lordship.  When they came to the havens the quay overlooked by the castle was still and quiet; no soldiers, priests or dock labourers awaited them.  Those onboard looked uneasily around, sensing some deep menace in the silence; a troubled awareness that the world was not as it had been and that every man's station within it was changed in some undiscovered way.   

As the ship berthed Torrin jumped ashore, grateful to feel solid ground under his feet, but wary of the unnatural silence.  He followed a passage that led up many broad steps to the castle courtyard and found the first bodies lying there; two priests locked in death in the final moments of combat.  White knuckles were left in throttling grip around a neck, while the blue hands of the strangled man still clutched the dagger hilt that had pierced his assailant's belly.   The rumour said the people had risen against the church, yet here the priests had been killing one another.  

“Turn slowly if you wish to live.”  

The voice sounded from behind him.  He obeyed, with hands held palms upwards, away from his sword hilt. A priest-soldier stood there, or very nearly, for the uniform was not complete; the emblem of Etoradom was missing.

“Who are you?” the soldier asked, finger stroking the crossbow latch.

“A traveller; just returned from far away.”

“What is your name?”

“Torrin.”

“What is your wife’s name?”

Torrin hesitated, surprised by the question.

“She is called Varna.”

“And who is the chief of your tribe?”

“Perrith.”

The priest lowered the crossbow a little and relaxed his trigger finger.

“Then you are he.  We must move quickly, there is still danger here.”

“Who are you?” demanded Torrin.  “Who sent you?  There is only one who knows these things about me.”

“I am Cannis.  There is no time to speak now, we must ride at once.”

Cannis turned and strode away. Torrin hurried beside him, passing more bodies as he went.

“What happened here?” asked Torrin, glancing down at the dead priests.  Cannis called back to him without slackening his pace.

“This garrison was summoned to put down the rising in Etoradom.  Many here refused to obey the orders and so they fought amongst themselves.  You will be told more, but now we must ride.”

They mounted two horses that waited saddled and ready.  Soon after they were cantering on the open road, but briefly, for Cannis led them into the forest and then weaved a cautious trail between the trees.  When they were able to ride side-by-side Torrin spoke to him.

“Only Valhad would know these things that you asked of.”

“Perhaps so,” said Cannis, “but it was another that told me who I must seek, and how he would be known.”

“And who is this person you speak of?”

“That you will know soon, for I am instructed to take you to him.”

Then Cannis was silent, and Torrin could get no further explanation from him.

They emerged from the forest by a village, and Cannis eyed the road ahead cautiously.  He led them on past scattered cottages towards the main square, passing a few loitering men who watched them suspiciously, and were all armed with sharpened farm tools.  The temple was a blackened ruin, the body of its priest hung from a tree close by; tethered by the foot, arms hanging loosely, body scored with many slashes.  On the most complete fragment of the temple wall the banned verse from the Text had been daubed in bold taunting letters.  They was a symbol painted too, a horizontal line with each end curling in a spiral like the horns of some animal.