Slow Turns The World (33 page)

“My protector.”

He knew before he turned who had slipped from the house to follow him here.  Only one addressed him so, only one voice in all that land had such sweet music in it.

“Marasil.”

“Forgive my entry here, protector.”

“You said that once before,” he smiled, “when you first came to my room.”

He opened his arms and in an instant they were filled with her.   They kissed deeply for a few moments, but then Torrin broke their union.

“Marasil,” he said sadly, “you know my time here is nearly over and that there is another love that calls me.  It lies too close now for this to begin again.”

“My protector, how blessed is she to be loved by one as true as you. And how blessed is our teacher and healer for what you are doing here.”

“What do you mean?” said Torrin, feigning innocence.

“You came here to collect that which heals.  I saw Valhad do this too, but he did not know I watched or that I have guessed the secret of the healing.”

Torrin hesitated, and then chose his words carefully.

“Many believe here that if healing is done by the power of root or leaf it is, in some way, evil.”

“Yes,” said Marasil, “and if the people feel they have been deceived, that the healing is some forbidden trickery, then they will not listen to his wisdom.”

“The time may come,” said Torrin, “when only you will know of this.”

“That is not a burden I would carry easily,” she said, then stretched and rubbed at tired eyes.  They had walked and laboured long and soon it would be time to march again.  Torrin lay down on the soft mossy ground and offered an arm to be her pillow.

“Shall we sleep?” he asked.

So she lay beside him and they embraced.  He kissed her cheeks gently and stroked her hair until her breathing changed its tempo.  He tried to sleep but every time the same dream awoke him; he saw the gates of Etoradom, and they became a mouth ringed with jagged teeth, which engulfed him and snapped shut.

The time came to wake, and then to walk.   They had not proceeded far when a horseman came from the city.   He was one of His Lordship’s men and the two of them separated from the group to speak at some length.   Torrin interrupted their private discourse without apology.

“Well,” he said, “what news comes from the city?”

The horseman looked to His Lordship, who gave a reluctant nod of approval.

“The citadel and walls are held fast by the Synod, but not the city streets.  There are often meetings in the squares and plazas.  Many address the crowds and seek to lead them, but none can yet unite the people under one banner.   The soldiers on the wall have fired crossbows into the crowds, but for every bolt they send a score come back and often find a mark.   They are not so keen to raise their weapons now.   Many groups compete for power, some have ladders made ready to take the walls, but none is strong enough alone.  All wait the coming of Valhad.  It was the persecution of his followers that hurried us to this conclusion and now they wait to see what message he will bring, and how the Synod will respond.”

They walked on and the city drew closer.  The tower of the citadel grew upon the sky, the red sunlight catching one wall and shadowing another.  The window slits were dark and brooding, as if a great face watched over them but gave no hint of its intention.   People had spilled from the city and the nearby villages to line the road ahead.  Many cheered, offered praises and bore gifts or tributes.  Others watched curiously or doubtfully as the great preacher approached and saw only a thin and wispy-bearded youth.  But some of the doubters found Valhad returning their stares, felt the intensity of his gaze and wondered at it.   The walls of the city grew closer.  A great crowd gathered at the gate, and on the battlements above mail and steel glinted in the sunlight.  Torrin gripped Valhad by the arm.

“This is close enough,” he said,  “make your sermon here and the people will come to you.”

Valhad did not turn his gaze from the gate ahead, or slow the pace of his stride.

“I must reach the heart of the people, Torrin.”

Torrin turned to His Lordship.

“This is madness, they could take him with an arrow whenever they choose; or any of us.”

“Indeed, Vasagi, Cardinal Saloxe watches and makes the choice of what will happen.  Others of the Synod will urge him to strike, to kill the heretic, and stamp authority on the city once again.  Be sure of it, that they are bending his ear with their rantings even now.   Saloxe is not a fool, he knows how much anger simmers here; he knows the risk of letting the flame ignite.”

“Aye,” said Torrin, doubtfully, “or maybe he thinks to tread his boot upon the ember and stamp it out.”

There was a light touch on Torrin’s arm from Marasil, who walked behind him.

“Protector, my protector, you are so worthy of that title, but God will protect now.  Have faith, for He will not abandon those who do His work.”

They came to the gate, the crowd cheering and throwing flowers on the road before them.  Torrin looked up and saw the face of a priest-soldier staring down.  There was a half smile on his lips as he watched the procession pass below, as he saw his enemies deliver themselves.  The span of stone became a dark roof above them and Torrin’s dream flashed back to him.  ‘
They have let us enter
,’ he thought, ‘
but how many of us shall leave?’
  The street beyond was packed with crowds and their shouts were loud now, for whatever their feelings on Valhad and his teachings, he had defied the Synod and entered the city.  Torrin scanned the myriad faces, and heard the many shouts.

“Praise the teacher!”

“Healer!  Healer! Help us…”

“Kill the priests! Give us swords, not words!”

“ False prophet! Blasphemer!”

There were angry scuffles as some, still devout in their observance of the Text, clashed with the more zealous revolutionaries.   Shreds of paper fell like snowflakes from above as pages were ripped from the Text and scattered from overhanging windows.  Others, gripping their own Texts tightly and protectively, waved angry fists at those above and shouted ‘sacrilege’.  Some broke from the ranks of the watchers to throw themselves upon the ground and reach to touch the hem of Valhad’s robe.  Others, calling ‘traitor’ or ‘heretic’ pushed forward also, but in either case the special guard under His Lordship’s command were ready to do their work and no hand, adoring or angry, came close enough to touch Valhad.  The thoroughfare ahead, a winding strip of cobbles between the ranks of the populace offered only one direction.  It led to a great plaza before the citadel gates.  It was as if they knew Valhad’s intention, felt the same force that drew him to the centre of the Etoradom.  The cheers were so loud that Torrin shouted into Valhad’s ear to make himself heard.

“Not before the Citadel gate, please, Valhad.  It will provoke them too much and it’s too close to the walls; they could put archers on three sides of us.”
 

Valhad did not reply but pressed on into the plaza.   Torrin felt a hand tugging him to a halt and turned to find His Lordship looking warily at the surrounding walls.

“Vasagi, I think this is one sermon we should watch from a distance.”

“Aye, you may be right.  There is no protection we can give him here, but yet my place must still be at his side.”

But, whatever Torrin’s intention, the few moments of stopping was sufficient to let the crowd surge past and deny him a way back to Valhad.   In the plaza, set before the citadel gates, was a great statue of God stood upon a many-stepped plinth.  The huge stone figure looked down sternly as His children gathered beneath.  Valhad climbed the steps until he came to the feet of the leviathan.  He looked up into the stone-cold eyes for a moment and smiled a little, but the face of God did not smile back.  Then he turned to the crowd and raised his arms for silence.  Torrin looked at the castellated wall tops that surrounded them, the arrow-slit windows and the huge wooden doors of the citadel shut-fast.  Other ears listened.  Other eyes watched.

“People of Etoradom,” Valhad began, “As I walked here through the city streets I saw some of you tearing pages from the Text.  I have seen others, as I have walked through the villages of this land, burning the book, setting flame to this most precious document.”  There was only a slight suggestion of scorn in the word precious but Torrin knew what was to come.

“Oh, no, my people,” continued Valhad, “I say to you do not burn these books, but read them very well and you shall learn much of man and God….”

There was a silence as Valhad drew breath and prepared to speak again.  It was the final moment of peace before the storm that broke.   The screams came first, for the arrows and bolts were too swift to see, only becoming visible as they found their targets, when leaking crimson showed where they had pierced.   The arrows killed many as they hissed from battlement and window slit, but confusion and trampling accounted for more.  The citadel doors opened swiftly and a squad of soldiers burst out, blades drawn and flashing.   Torrin was caught in the flood of the panicking crowd; he made little headway against the jostling, pushing, bodies and could only watch impotently as the soldiers did their work.  Several robed figures stood between them and Valhad.  The old man Draigar raised his hands and tried to say some words but a single sword thrust pierced him and he crumpled.  Alasam and Marasil gripped Valhad by the arms and tried to urge him away, but he seemed transfixed on the approaching soldiers.  He saw them advance with a sad, slow, shake of his head; like a father watching disobedient children.

Torrin fought his way against the last wave of the crowd and broke free into empty space.  He ran across the plaza, past those who lay crushed or wounded; some crying out in pain or moaning softly but many that were deathly still.   He saw the figures ahead, Valhad clutched by the white-robed forms of Alasam and Marasil, the soldiers with cold steel flashing in their hands.   The curved sword of Kalor slid from its scabbard, but the pounding feet of Torrin were not swift enough.  He saw them slash down Alasam; cruel and slicing cuts that let the blood rush from him.  They stabbed and spiked him as he fell; too many thrusts to take so frail a life.  Marasil screamed out, and in the moment lost her grip on Valhad.  She fell to her knees by her father’s side, shock and grief consuming her.   They did not use their swords on Valhad but seized and dragged him back towards the gate.   Marasil looked up and saw Valhad taken.  She sprang up and ran to him, grasping at his trailing feet, sinking to her knees and clutching at him as they dragged him to the gate.  She clung to him, sobbing and pleading with the soldiers.

Torrin was nearly upon them, had almost crossed the wide plaza when he saw the soldier strike at her.  What he would never forget, what made his anger all-consuming, was the careless way the jab was made.  The priest-soldier stabbed at her as if she was not worth a fraction of the strength his arm could muster.  A quick, casual, jerk of the blade to rid them of this nuisance, of this pleading woman who slowed them in their task.   The sword point spiked her chest and her grip on Valhad loosened, she stayed kneeling as her fingertips made their last contact, as they stroked the skin of his ankles and then his sandaled feet.   

They were at the gate when Torrin reached them.   They heard his running feet approaching, his scream of fury and distress as they wounded Marasil.  The same man who had struck that blow came forward now to meet her avenger.   He raised his blade, still red tipped with her blood, and prepared to slash and strike again.   When the bull barak charges there is only one place, one tiny point of weakness, that the spear can pierce.  Only the fastest, swiftest, hunters have the skill to find it; the nimble speed, to strike and still to live.   The soldier raised his sword but hardly saw the blur of steel that sliced and cut the hand from his wrist.  

The blade clattered on the flagstones, still gripped by clutching fingers.   The soldier stared, disbelieving, at the squirts of blood that pumped from the stump of his wrist.   Then the curved blade cleaved the air again, the body crumpled, the severed head rolled and then lay still.  Torrin ran on the last few paces to the gate but it slammed shut before he reached it.   He caught Valhad’s eye just before the door closed.   He saw a look that was sad with destiny and yet not defeated; as if what had happened and what was to happen was just the way that things must be.  

Arrows rained again, sparking on the flagstones around him.  He turned and ran to Marasil, scooped her up, then dashed to cover as the arrows flew past.  When he reached safety he knelt and held her in his arms.  She opened her eyes weakly and looked up at him.

“My protector,” she whispered.

“I am not worthy to be called that,” he replied sadly, “for I have not protected those most dear to me.”

“You are but one man and you cannot fight an army alone.  Have no blame for yourself…”

“I should have been at his side,” said Torrin, and then bowing and shaking his head remorsefully; “It should not have been you, or Alasam.”

“Poor father,” she said softly, “he gave so much to be close to me and now we could not be so far apart.  But wherever he has gone I shall be there too.”

“Not yet. Not yet,” said Torrin and he kissed her face but her skin felt cold. “We know the healing power,” he told her, “we can make you well again.”

“My sweet protector, do you remember what Valhad said to us once?  He tried to tell us the greatest thing that we could know and we did not understand.  Do you remember what he told us?”

Her words had become a softer whisper as the life bled from her.   

“What did he tell us?” Torrin asked, a tremor in his voice, the tears welling.

“That there is no darkness, no darkness.  And because I know this I am not afraid.”

Torrin remembered other words Valhad had spoken.

“The drop that came from the ocean…” He whispered.

 “Returns to the ocean...” She said the words so quietly, as if sleep was drawing its veil upon her.

She seemed more alluring than ever before; now a pale-skinned, porcelain beauty.  He had been so afraid to love her, had fought and resisted what could have been, but in this moment he could deny the truth no longer.