The Right Hand of God (13 page)

If only, if only someone would step forward and claim the Arrow for themselves, he might then be rid of the voice in his head. If only. Failing that, he resolved not to speak to the voice, not to ask any questions of it. Certainly the voice had remained silent since the sacred island of the Aslamen, weeks ago now. Perhaps his growing familiarity with the Jugom Ark meant the voice was no longer necessary. He could only hope.

Or, more worryingly, maybe the voice was his own, the voice of a troubled boy trying to be heard. Perhaps he was crazed. Had he confessed his inner voice to his friends in Loulea, they would have considered him mad. He remembered a man with a young family from a farm near Garrison Hill who took to living in a tree, the better to hear the teachings of the Most High, most of which seemed to revolve around the care of cattle. His sons had been forced to run the farm. It was as though their father had left them and been replaced by another man, so complete was the change.

Feeling the stirrings of a strange pity, Leith left the tent without a word and went in search of his own father. The food lines had finally disappeared, either satisfied at last or maybe driven off by the light but persistent drizzle. Neither of his parents was in view. He cast about for them somewhat anxiously, wondering where they might have sheltered. Then he noticed the crowd.

They were gathered near the broken arch of the Struere Gate, huddled under the City Wall, which provided a measure of protection from the southerly showers sweeping over the City.

Leith raised the Arrow without thinking, simply seeking to shed some light so he might find his mother and father. As he did so a collective gasp rose from the crowd. Leith gasped in turn as he realised the magnitude of the gathering. There must be thousands! Twenty and thirty deep against the wall they stood, spilling out on to the street, quietly waiting for something; their numbers still being reinforced by others walking down the Vitulian Way or even coming through the Gate itself. Leith wandered over to them, wondering what they waited for.

'Look!' came a man's voice from the throng. 'There it is! It's the Arrow!'

'It is, it truly is!' a woman echoed. 'Hold it up again; let us see it!'

Other voices joined in. 'Please, sir; come and bless us! Shine your light on us! You fed us, you healed us, you rescued us from the swords of the wicked! Grant our prayers, we beg you!'

Within a moment the noise became deafening, and the crowd surged forward. Leith was momentarily overwhelmed by panic.

All of these people are standing in the dark, in the rain, to see me.

Then his parents appeared at his side, flanking him, right and left; and Mahnum cried out in a loud voice: 'Hold! Please, good people, hold back! The Arrow is dangerous. It will burn anyone who approaches too closely!' Indrett put an arm around Leith's shoulder and whispered in his ear: 'Be brave, my son. Remember these are people, not just a crowd.'

'What do you mean? What is happening?' But his voice was drowned by the crowd thronging towards him still. They parted left and right, taking Mahnum's warning seriously. Others of the Company drew up behind him, having heard the commotion, and it took only a moment for them to realise what was happening. Something they should have anticipated. Hundreds had been rescued from the Instruian Guard the previous night, hundreds more fed and clothed today: all of them had seen the Jugom Ark, and of all the cities in Faltha, this was the one whose inhabitants best remembered the legend of the Arrow of Yoke.

Here on this island, two thousand years ago, Furist and Raupa quarrelled and divided Faltha in two. They had argued over who should have charge of the Flaming Arrow, the symbol of the Most High's judgment on Kannwar, the

Destroyer. Bewray emerged victorious from that, conflict, and from the island he had travelled southwards, the Jugom Ark entrusted to his safekeeping. Here the Bhrudwan wrath descended a thousand years later, a thousand years ago. The Destroyer hated Instruere, the unofficial capital and most powerful city of Faltha, to him a potent symbol of the regard the Most High held for the First Men. And to this great City the Jugom Ark would return, so the legends said; heralding a time of trouble, yet bringing unity to Faltha and giving true Falthans strength and light against their dark Enemy. So it was said.

And on this day, all over the city, it had been said again and again. People drifted together, talking in groups on the streets or meeting together as neighbours, friends or extended families. Those who had been there told of the miraculous intervention of the Flaming Arrow on behalf of the Ecclesia. In the afternoon the Arrow had been sighted again, this time in the company of a group supplying food, shelter and clothing for those affected by the fires. The largesse had apparently been wrested from reluctant businessmen, not from the City Fathers.

Word of the new sighting spread swiftly through these clusters of Instruians. In every knot of people discussing the strange events someone could be found who knew the prophecies of the Arrow and was only too willing to share that knowledge. The excitement and speculation grew with each retelling.

No one called them, but they came. The Jugom Ark was the talk of the town, the whisper in the darkest alleyways, the topic of discussion among the well-to-do, the subject of the moment in the markets and a distraction to all who wanted to conduct business. In the midst of their troubles, many Instruians believed their salvation was revealed. Some remembered how the northerners braved The Pinion a few months previously, and that deed was added to the list of reasons why it seemed a good idea to brave the rain and the dangerous streets to catch a glimpse of the flaming Arrow. In their thousands they came. And now they waited for the Bearer of the Arrow to speak.

'You'll have to say something to them, boy,' Kurr hissed in his ear. 'They're not here to look at your pretty face.'

'But - but I. . .' He could say no more. The truth of it, Leith realised, is this is more than I can bear. He would not ask the voice for help, and he could not think of words of his own to say.

'Leith! This is the moment! This is why we risked everything to find Kantara!' Phemanderac's voice whispered urgently, but Leith felt rooted to the spot.

Hasty whispers from somewhere behind him produced a wooden box, which willing hands placed in front of the crowd. In an instant Phemanderac stood on it, arms outstretched, pleading for silence. 'Citizens of Instruere!' he cried. 'In a moment you will hear from the Bearer of the Jugom Ark. But first, listen now as I tell you the tale of the Flaming Arrow.'

Even though his friend the philosopher had earned him a brief reprieve, Leith found it hard to breathe. What would he say to them? What hope could he offer these people? What counsel could he give? A thousand thoughts swirled in his head, like starlings seeking a field on which to alight.

Phemanderac raised his voice until it could be heard throughout the open space in front of the Struere Gate. Perhaps it's Hal enhancing again, or maybe the magician and his daughter, Leith thought. Whichever it was, the illusion made it possible to address the crowd.

'More than two years ago I left my home, the legendary land of Dhauria,' the tall philosopher told them. 'I have dedicated my life to studying the ancient prophecies of Hauthius, who foretold the return of the Arrow of Yoke, which would bind the peoples of Faltha together. I travelled the wide world in search of the Hand that would wield the Arrow, with few clues to help me in my search. "The one you seek will be found in a Lowly Vale, in the Cape of Fire,"

the old books told me. So I travelled towards Firanes, and on the way there was captured by a fierce tribe known as the Widuz, imprisoned in a dark dungeon and readied as a sacrifice to their gods.

'But I was rescued by a brave and valiant warrior, a member of a company of northerners travelling to Instruere to warn Faltha of a great danger. One of their number had learned that the Destroyer plans an invasion of Faltha. Even now the Black One amasses his evil armies, and aims them at Instruere, the heart of Faltha. Before year's end, perhaps, the Undying Man and his army will be camped outside your gates.'

He pointed to Mahnum. 'Here is the man who spent two dangerous years in Bhrudwo uncovering the Destroyer's plans. He braved the dungeons of Andratan and wrested the knowledge of our fast-approaching doom from the hand of the Destroyer himself. Without his courage we would be ignorant of the black tide drawing near our borders. And my rescuer, the one who saved me from the Widuz execution pit, is this man's son. It is he who holds the Jugom Ark. His name is Leith, son of Mahnum, and he is the Bearer of the Arrow.

'The northerners came to Instruere to warn the Council of Faltha. But the Council of Faltha, your rulers, would not

listen, for among them were traitors, men who sold their souls to Bhrudwo in exchange for promises of wealth or power to be delivered when the Destroyer takes the City for his own.

They have gained control of Instruere, and even now plot to render her defenceless when the brown hordes are thrown against us. They are prepared to expend your lives, and those of your children, to curry favour with their new master.

'Leith and his father were thrown into The Pinion by the Council of Faltha, but they escaped, eluding the Instruian Guard and setting others free in the process. Perhaps there is someone here tonight who was rescued by their bravery?' Three or four voices called affirmation from near the rear of the crowd; heads turned to look. 'For a time Escaigne hid them from the vengeance of the Council of Faltha, and sought to enlist their aid in the overthrow of the City.

However, it is not their desire to replace one regime with another, but to unite all Falthans in opposition to our great enemy. The northerners rejected Escaigne's offer, instead setting out in search of the jugom Ark.

'Citizens of Instruere! It is obvious the quest for the Jugom Ark was successful. Leith Mahnumsen is the first man to hold the Arrow of Yoke in two thousand years, the first since Bewray hid it against this very hour. So I need not regale you with our many adventures, or the suffering and loss we endured, in order to find and redeem the one hope of Faltha. It is here, it is truly here, and we are saved!' A great cheer arose from the crowd.

Phemanderac, arms raised, waited for quiet. 'Yet not completely saved.' He paused. 'If our leaders were loyal servants of Faltha, we would gladly turn over the Arrow to them and trust them to find ways to use it to deliver us from

the evil about to fall upon us. But they are part of that evil. We must take up the Arrow of Yoke ourselves and try to raise an army to defeat the menace of the Destroyer.

'Listen to me! We are like insects drawn to the light of the Jugom Ark. Yet I do not believe it has any magic of itself that will heal all the divisions between us. We have much to do before we can present a unified front against the cruel enemy that comes our way. Look around you!

Struere is set against Inna, Escaigne opposes Instruere, and northerners and southerners still treat each other with suspicion. It is time to put aside the things that divide us - money, old quarrels, misguided loyalty to the place of our birth - and unite under the banner of the Jugom Ark. Thus we will drive out the traitors in our midst, and raise an army to defend Instruere and all of Faltha from the hatred and greed of Bhrudwo.

'So be ready! Prepare! Await the call of the Flaming Arrow, and together we will go into battle!'

Phemanderac stepped down from the impromptu platform amid the cheering and excitement of the crowd.

'A stirring speech,' the Haufuth told him. 'Maybe this is how it will begin. We will find our army amongst those who have been oppressed by the rich and powerful.' Others of the Company gathered around the philosopher, congratulating him on his oratory. Clearly assuming that the evening's entertainment was over, the crowd began to disperse, perhaps turning their thoughts to the journey home through the light rain that continued to fall. The flames from the Jugom Ark reflected from every puddle, every rain-slick surface, until it seemed that the whole neighbourhood had caught alight.

Everyone had forgotten Leith. He stood there, a little apart from his friends, surrounded by thousands of faces flickering

in the supernatural light of the Arrow, yet no one looked at him. Those who remained gazed at the bright light they saw as their salvation. The figure bearing the Jugom Ark might as well have been a torch-holding stanchion.

It's not right, Leith realised. That's not how it's meant to be. Phemanderac's got it wrong.

Simplistic black-and-white rhetoric, the philosopher's words papered over the huge cracks in Faltha's facade. Faltha's not like he said. He told no lies, but what he said wasn't the truth. He continued to worry away at it. We're not entirely good, he admitted. And if we're not entirely good, then the Bhrudwans aren't entirely bad.

The thought opened something in his mind. Words and thoughts flickered in his head; slow at first, then faster and faster. 'You five are the fingers of a gatherin hand,' he heard Kroptur say, in the house under Watch Hill. A hand has five fingers,' the voice of Phemanderac explained, as they hid together, planning their journey south to find the Jugom Ark. Another voice hissed: 'You are First Man. You say you were first, but you were last.' He recalled the feel of the knife held to his throat, the sweet fragrance of the sacred island in his nostrils, sharpened by the moment. The memories quickened: Te Tuahangata's anger, the cruelty of the Widuz and the cowardice of the people of Inch Chanter, the glorious, all-encompassing laughter of the Fodhram;. and through it all like a discord came the voice of Farr of Mjolkbridge, angrily declaiming in the inn at Windrise; 'Losian! Losian to a man, the abandoned of the Most High, discarded misfits who rejected the Way of Fire! Arrogant, ill-tempered half-breeds! Save your dealings for descendants of the First Men, and keep yourself purel' Images swirled through each other, finally resolving to a warm night in a forest, Leith sitting with two old ones by a fire, and hearing the