The Broken World Book One - Children of Another God

The Broken
World

Book One

Children of
another God

T C
Southwell

Published by T
C Southwell at Smashwords

Copyright ©
2010 T C Southwell

Smashwords
Edition, License Notes

Thank you for
downloading this free e-book. You are welcome to share it with your
friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for
non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete
original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to
Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author. Thank you
for your support.

Table of
Contents

Chapter
One

Chapter
Two

Chapter
Three

Chapter
Four

Chapter
Five

Chapter
Six

Chapter
Seven

Chapter
Eight

Chapter
Nine

Chapter
Ten

Chapter
Eleven

Chapter
Twelve

Chapter
Thirteen

Chapter
Fourteen

Chapter
Fifteen

Chapter
Sixteen

Chapter One

A raven hovered
on the icy wind, its pinions rippling as it surveyed the land
below. It descended, riding the wind like a swift, frolicsome
steed, its wings folding and outstretching as the breeze
intensified or diminished. Its cruel beak snapped from side to
side, studying the feast it had discovered, its beady eyes bright.
With a harsh cry, it lowered sharp-clawed feet and perched atop a
broken spear, folding its wings as the wind ruffled its
feathers.

Chanter opened
his eyes. Wind-torn clouds of billowing, swelling grey vapour flew
above him. A dark river invaded a pale canyon and turned into a
grey wall. Pain washed through him in a gentle tide, a dull,
faraway sensation. Earthpower soaked into him from the cold
mountainside on which he lay. Pockets of snow nestled amid the
black rocks, much of it stained pink with the blood that had been
spilt here earlier. Death stalked the killing field as a pale mist,
swallowing the souls of the fallen that hung over their bodies in a
shimmering shroud only he could see. Dolana, the Earthpower, froze
his fingers and toes and sent icy tendrils into his heart, numbing
him. He welcomed it. If only his life could end here and now,
amongst the dead of his clan and the cold company of spirits, so he
might join them.

The spear that
had been driven through him in a savage thrust protruded from his
chest. He had been the first to fall. His hand still clutched the
blood-smeared shaft. He remembered his feeble attempt to pull it
free soon after it had impaled him. Now he wondered why he had come
to the battle. A foolish wish to stand beside his clan in war. With
fading eyes, he watched the mist gather and swirl as it joined the
hordes of dead into a sparkling form.

The Lady of
Death, Marrana, stalked the battlefield this day, gathered the dead
to her and enfolded them in her cold, ragged cloak. The form
floated closer, mesmerising him with its weird beauty and the
terror that preceded it. The shimmering soul-mist gathered to it,
swelling it, and within its greyness he looked upon the face of
Death. A thing of beauty and horror, of sorrow and ecstasy, turning
this way and that as she gathered the souls. Now the aspect of the
hag, now the beauteous maiden, then the burning fiend of
retribution. All souls drew to her, their differences forgotten
with the lives they had lost, and entered her embrace for the
journey to the Lake of Dreams.

Chanter drew on
Dolana, willing Death to walk a little closer and claim him too.
The Earthpower flowed into him with cool intensity, draining
him.

Marrana,
he longed to cry out,
take me with you to the Lake of Dreams! Don't
leave me here alone. Why am I denied the end you grant so many
others?
Such a plea would gain him nothing,
however.

The goddess
walked by, her tattered cloak of grey mist brushing his face with
cold rags. A deathly caress, a brief glimpse into beyond and the
light of glory there. Chanter strained at the ground, his bloody
hands gripping cold soil, but for him there was no tug of summons.
He was the reason for her coming, yet he would be the only one left
behind. Sagging back, he watched her drift away.

The raven
cawed, and Chanter closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he
was alone on the icy, wind-swept field of death. So, if Death would
not take him, then Life must. He called on Dolana, and the surge of
Earthpower sapped his strength like a leech at his blood. His mind
locked with the raven's, which spread dusty wings and landed on his
chest with a thud. He imprinted his will upon the bird, and its
feathers brushed his face, then it winged away into the cold
greyness with a harsh, echoing cry.

Two days passed
in silent dark and light. Icicles formed on the spear shaft and
almost reached his chest. Dolana sapped him, but he could summon no
other power while he was pinned to the ground. He consigned himself
to sleep's sweet oblivion, and escaped the cold and loneliness
together.

Rough hands
pulled him up, and pain exploded through him as fresh blood washed
over the blackened crusts on his chest. He raised his head with
frozen muscles, and his lips twisted in a bloody snarl. Dolana
drained, taking the cold with it, and the warmth of Crayash flamed.
He lashed out with a savage jerk, and someone cursed, pinned his
arm and twisted it as peasant voices mumbled close by in a strange
dialect.

Wood hit him on
the head as he was tossed into the back of a cart. The wheels
rattled over frozen ground, jolting him. A dark figure crouched
beside him, and the Power of Crayash swelled in Chanter, warming
him. A rough hand took hold of the spear and tugged. Voices cursed,
and more hands joined the task. Two of them pulled the frozen shaft
from his chest with a sucking gurgle and a flood of warm blood.
Chanter closed his eyes, glad that the discomfort was gone, and let
the rattling wheels lull him.

Icy earth hit
the side of his head, and he opened his eyes. The wagon rattled
away, the two men whipping the skinny horse into an unwilling trot.
Dolana flowed through him, its seeping cold embracing him again.
Crayash was gone from his reach, and he watched his blood soaked
into the snow. Muffled footsteps approached, and he looked up at
his captor.

Mishak studied
his new acquisition with jaundiced eyes. The raven had brought a
vision of power and blood, death and a living soul. Now he knew
why. The man who lay on the snow was Mujar, unable to die. Mishak
leant on his staff and sighed. He had lived alone in his
dilapidated cabin since his son had been stolen three years before,
and the inhabitants of the village at the bottom of the
neighbouring valley called him a hermit. They respected his wisdom,
however, and some considered him to be a sage, occasionally paying
for his advice to settle disputes and avert potential
disasters.

The blacksmith
and his son had agreed to fetch the man Mishak had seen in his
vision from Prair's Crag because Mishak had settled a dispute
between them and the local miners last year concerning the price
and quality of the ore. Mishak frowned at the injured unman.

The Mujar's
half open eyes glowed silver-blue, the pupils pin points. Thick
black lashes offset the pale irises, making them shine like jewels.
One of the reasons people hated Mujar. Burning eyes, they called
them, or shining eyes.

Mishak prodded
the Mujar's blood-caked chest with his staff. "You want
comforts?"

Slowly his eyes
closed, and he nodded.

Mishak grunted.
"No harm."

Again the unman
nodded, raising a hand in the traditional palm-up gesture of the
defeated. His mouth worked, and blood dribbled out as he grated,
"No harm."

Mishak bent and
gripped the shoulder of the Mujar's studded leather tunic. He might
be a greybeard, but Mujar were slender, and so not a heavy load to
drag. Within the log cabin, Mishak dropped his burden next to the
fire with a groan as his back ached. The Mujar turned to the blaze,
and Mishak brought his staff down with a ringing crack on the
hearth stones.

"No
Powers!"

Chanter looked
up at his captor, an old Lowman with a long white beard and
wrinkled skin. He had not been going to use the Crayash. He only
wanted to get closer to its warmth and banish the chill from his
bones, but the old man was nervous, that was plain. He withdrew,
and the Lowman turned and leant his staff against the wall,
shucking his black cloak. Beneath it he wore a ragged robe of dirty
brown wool, a grey shift showing at its hem.

Chanter glanced
around at the dingy cabin, whose log walls were thick with dust.
Cobwebs and ancient bunches of dried herbs dangled from the
rafters, and tarnished copper pots hung above a blackened wood
stove in the corner. A water barrel stood in another corner, and
shelves held an assortment of unidentifiable dusty oddments.
Rotting curtains covered the windows and moth-eaten rugs were
scattered on the dirty floor. A rough-hewn table held soiled cups
and plates, and a solitary chair stood beside a chest of drawers.
The man walked to the basin on a stool beside the water barrel and
scooped up a cup of water. Returning to his captive, he held it out
of reach.

"You asked for
help," the man said, "and you've had it. What's the gratitude?"

Chanter tried
to swallow, then grated, "Wish."

"Anything?"

Chanter nodded,
letting his head rest on the stone floor. Dolana seeped into him
again, weakening him. The Lowman knelt and held the cup to his
lips. Chanter sucked at the water, swallowed jerkily and coughed.
The Power of Shissar flowed into him, bringing with it the agony
that always accompanied a Mujar's healing. He convulsed, blood
oozing from the wound in his chest.

The old man
watched him writhe, looking alert, presumably for the first sign of
another Power. A rush of wind and the sound of beating wings filled
the room, and he kicked Chanter hard enough to make him grunt.

"No
Powers!"

Chanter groaned
and rolled onto his side to escape the old man's boots. He clawed
at the floor, grimacing as he fought to control the wild surge of
Ashmar that sometimes accompanied healing. The sound of beating
wings vanished, and the man relaxed, sinking into the old wooden
chair.

As Chanter's
writhing calmed, the Lowman ladled stew from the pot over the fire
and settled down to eat. The Mujar closed his eyes, and for some
time only the scrape of the old man's spoon broke the silence. When
it stopped, Chanter opened his eyes and sat up. His captor pulled
an iron poker from the flames, and the Mujar's eyes followed it as
he once again made the palm-up gesture.

"Gratitude."

"Mujar." The
man spat into the fire. "The eternally damned. Iron through the
brain will hurt you."

Chanter
nodded.

"Name," the old
man snapped. "The real one, mind you."

Chanter lowered
his eyes to the floor. "Chanter."

The man pulled
open a drawer in the chest beside him and took out a quill, an
inkpot and a scrap of parchment. Dipping the quill in the ink, he
wrote the name on the parchment and threw it into the fire. Chanter
coughed and collapsed.

The man nodded.
"Good. A good start. Lie to me, and you'll suffer."

Chanter gasped,
his chest burning as his name crisped in the flames. When it eased,
he sat up again, folded his legs beside him and rested his weight
on one hand. He kept his head bowed, so his dirty hair hid his
face. The dried mud and gore that covered him was so thick it
cracked when he moved, and an unpleasant graveyard smell hung about
him.

The Lowman
refilled his bowl and ate with slow relish. Chanter picked at the
scabs of dried blood on the back of his hand to distract himself
from his hunger. The oldster knew a little of Mujar ways, and was
now in possession of the small amount of power over him that his
name bestowed. Still, he was too weak to flee and, despite the
Lowman's cruelty, he was indebted to him. Better just to sit and
draw on Crayash for warmth, the Shissar the man had bestowed
slowing the blood that oozed from his wound.