The Right Hand of God (15 page)

The silence following his hasty exit impressed upon everyone present just how serious the situation had become. At that moment the whole quest rested on the edge of a knife. Leith bit back the replies fighting with each other for control of his tongue. Someone else had to carry the argument forward ...

'Earlier tonight I told you all a story about the Haukl,' rumbled a deep voice. Leith had to turn and look to attach a name to it. Grandfather. 'It appears you did not listen. I watched the Jugom Ark mark out the losian as true Falthans. It appears you did not see. If we spend time now debating our course of action, who among you will understand?'

'Is that all you have to say, old man?' Mahnum snarled. 'You, who came late to Haurn, who came late to this quest, and who came to your family not at all? You presume to teach us?'

Modahl stood quietly and with dignity, but with a troubled

expression on his proud face. 'You are right, my son. I have no right to speak here. I will wait outside the tent until you have reached a decision. Perhaps without me here you will be able to concentrate on the matter at hand.'

As the night closed around the white-cloaked figure, Mahnum put his head in his hands.

'Everything is falling apart, just when we should be victorious,' he muttered.

'Anyone else want to leave?' Te Tuahangata asked them. 'You, my prince?' he inquired of Wiusago mockingly. 'Could you stand to share a battlefield with the likes of me? Or you, wise one?' This to Phemanderac. 'Do you find our grasp of the world a little too primitive for your taste? Anyone else?' No one moved.

The Child of the Mist snorted. 'And you,' he said, turning to Leith. 'I am angriest of all with you. Who gave you leave to speak for us? When did we agree to fight in your Falthan army?

Did you think we losian, as you call us, would be so fawningly grateful to have your god's approval that we would gladly march like fodder in the van of your mighty force, to shed our blood so your precious First Men might hold on to our land? You who have been honoured by my ancestors beyond your wit to recognise, did you even listen to what they said? We are not of the Fire like you; we follow a different path. We are of the Earth. We are tied to the land.

We cannot leave it to fight in your war. The losian say "No" to your generous offer!'

Leith made to speak, but Geinor spoke before him. 'Be not too hasty to throw away the offer extended to you,' he said unctuously, no doubt enraging the warrior all the more. 'It is no trivial thing to be invited to fight with the armies of Faltha.'

'No,' Leith said, and silence fell. 'No! They will not fight alongside the army, they will be the army, along with all the rest of us. We will make no distinction. How else can we avoid destroying each other before we ever face the Destroyer himself?' He turned to the smouldering Mist-man. 'Whether we fight together or not, the time has come for First Men and losian to talk. Tua, we have set Fire to your Earth and consumed it, leaving you little more than nothing. If you are truly to be a part of Faltha, then we must make room for you. We must aid you in reclaiming your lands for your own.'

'Fine words well spoken,' Tua conceded, though he did not look satisfied. 'But we have sat together with our foes on the sacred mound and exchanged well-meaning words, while behind our backs the First Men continue to steal the Earth away from us. Is that not so, Wiusago?'

The blond-haired man gave a slow nod of agreement.

'Leith,' Perdu said gently, kindly, as a father correcting a much-loved but wayward son. 'I admire your heart. You are young, and for the first time you see the injustice in the world.

With youthful enthusiasm you think to change all this; you seek to enforce your own benevolent rules, and in your hand, you think, is the power to enforce them. But the land is not yours to give. What would happen if you took the land from the people who now live on it? Who have lived on it for generations? You will have created a new list of injustices.

'Leith, I live with a race who once ruled over most of Firanes. The Fenni were masters from Iskelsee to the Jawbone Mountains. Now they are confined to the moors. Were you to offer them their ancient lands back, they would refuse, for they have grown to despise the soft coastlands. They have become hard, like the land in which they dwell. They wish for no other.'

As Leith sat amongst them, looking from one to the other, his mother took up the thread. 'And what of the Widuz?' she said. 'Mahnum told me what they did to those they captured. I saw what they did to Parlevaag, and I will never forget her face as the blade pierced her. Should people like that be given more lands to corrupt? Would they be satisfied even if they were given the whole of Plonya, the whole of Treika? Would their cursed hole in the ground stop crying out for sacrifices? Leith, dear Leith, you ask too much.'

'Then this has all been in vain,' Leith said, voice heavy. 'Five set out from Loulea, the five fingers of a gathering hand. Farr and Wira from Mjolkbridge we gathered, and from the Fenni came Perdu and Parlevaag. The Hermit joined us on our travels, as did die Warden of the Fodhram for a time. Amongst us sit men and women from Escaigne, from Nemohaim, from Deruys, from Sna Vaztha and from Hinepukohurangi. Even some from outside Faltha have joined us. Phemanderac of Dhauria, and Maendraga and Belladonna, do not serve any of the Sixteen Kings. We have Achtal from Bhrudwo itself. This is the true nature of the Arkhimm!

We are appointed as gatherers! Could we have gathered any more widely? Please, answer this: what were we doing wrong, that so many who are not of the First Men have been gathered to our cause? Or could it be we have done what was planned from the beginning?

That this conflict with Bhrudwo, serious as it is, has been allowed to happen to force us to look in each other's eyes? Isn't the spirit of the Jugom Ark the friendship we see around this table? Are we to be the forerunners, the very first to enter into a partnership that will not only drive Bhrudwo from our lands, but also see that those lands are divided with greater fairness amongst all true Falthans?

'1 have held on to this Arrow when none other could,' he

said, and his voice was edged with bitterness. 'Time and again I wanted this burden to pass to someone else. Someone older, wiser, stronger than I. It is a responsibility I do not want. I would rather go back to Loulea and sit on the front step of my house, carving wood and talking to my friends, and let someone else worry about the defence of Faltha. But no other hand has stretched out to take the Arrow, save one.' Here he nodded to the Arkhos of Nemohaim, who wore a scowl like the entrance to a deep cave. 'And he could not bear it.

'I have held on to the Arrow when no one else could,' he repeated stubbornly. 'Surely that counts for something! I have become attuned to it. I know what it wants; I sense its spirit. Let me tell yqu what it is like. It burns with a passionate fire, ready to consume anything or anyone who seeks to divide and destroy; ready to defend anyone who seeks to build up and to unify. It is pleased with the plan I have outlined. It wants us to oppose Bhrudwo with one heart. If you do not believe me, all you have to do is to take up the Arrow yourself and listen to what it says to you. Perhaps it will tell you a different story! Perhaps a story like the one it told the Arkhos of Nemohaim!'

He stood, anger finally consuming him like fire, and raised the Arrow above his head. 'If anyone here wishes to take the burden from me, then all that is required is to take up the Jugom Ark. If you can do this, then I beg you, please take it!' And, with a cry, he struck the table with the Arrow, then stepped away, leaving the point stuck fast in the wood.

Long into the night the Company talked, ideas and arguments flying around the table, where in the centre the Flaming Arrow burned low. Leith said not a word. Eventually they either left or fell asleep where they sat. The talk died down until the only sounds in the pavilion were the gentle snores of the Haufuth and the whispering crackle of the Jugom Ark.

Long after everyone else had closed their eyes, the Arkhos of Nemohaim remained sitting upright in his seat, eyes fixed on the glowing Arrow.

THE HERMIT OF BANDITS' CAVE sat hunched over a low table, his head resting in his hands. Opposite him the leaders of the various branches of the Ecclesia sat, talking earnestly; sometimes one after the other, sometimes all at once. He gave no sign he listened to what they said.

The news of Tanghin's betrayal was a devastating blow. For twenty years the dark, isolated recesses of Bandits' Cave had been his home, a place of purification, of preparation for the time that was to come. In countless dreams and visions he had foreseen it. The coming of the Right Hand of God, the one who held the fire of the Most High in his hand, the Anointed One who raised a mighty army to deliver Faltha from the mouth of her enemies, the one to usher in a new golden age. Perhaps even to rule it. For a time the Hermit had believed the youngster from out west was the one, but since his arrival in Instruere it was clear this was not so. In his humility, which he now realised had held him back from his true destiny for years, he ascribed the object of the vision in his heart to someone other than himself. Yet where was the boy now? Where were the northerners,

for ail their self-importance? They had turned their back on the Ecclesia, which proved their timidity, their lack of vision. And where was he, the Hermit so beloved by the Most High?

Here in Instruere, at the forefront of the next move of God.

The setback perpetrated by the duplicitous Tanghin, undoubtedly motivated by jealousy, seeking to destroy what he could not rule, was a test, a trial of the Hermit's faith. All this talk from his leaders about joining with Escaigne, or with the rumoured group of outsiders supposedly doing good works in the south of the City, he took to be a sign of their weakness.

Tanghin would be overcome by strength, not by weakness. They were unfit to carry the vision, Tanghin was unfit, they were all unfit. It was time to take the burden back on his own shoulders. There would be no more alliances.

The Hermit slammed his fists down on the table, silencing his followers. For that is, what they are. Followers, not leaders. They will serve, me; they will all serve me. The Fire would not be snuffed out by the fear and timidity of cowardly men. So, gathering them together, he told them what they were to do.

The blue fire burned dully as Deorc chanted his foul words. They hurt Stella's ears as they rumbled across the room. Moving his hands backwards and forwards over the bowl, he drew the flame upwards until the cold light steadied and the familiar voice began to speak. The girl from Loulea writhed in agony at the mere sound of that voice. She desperately wished she could clap her hands over her ears; but forced herself to listen for anything she might be able to use to her advantage. While she listened she felt the dreadful pull of the flames. Deorc had carefully explained to her that the blue fire drew strength from all those nearby. Each time it was used, he said with pride, it would take maybe a month, maybe a year or even more from the life of those it drew from, depending on the length of time it burned. Strong men could be reduced to husks by the blue fire, he told her. The hateful man seemed to think spending his life in this way was a badge of honour, and kept him high in his master's favour. Stella could feel the fire pulling at her, draining her dry.

'I will hear your report,' the loathsome voice commanded. Deorc abased himself like a whipped dog.

'Great Lord, I find I must report a setback in your plans,' he said, licking his bloodless lips.

'The deposed Arkhos of Nemohaim has raised a force in opposition to me, and thwarted my attempt to destroy the Ecclesia.'

'How is this possible?' the voice thundered. Stella thought it would rip her heart out, such was the anger behind the words.

'My lord, he has a mighty magician to aid him. By the power of this mage the shades of the dead were raised against the Guard. It took me all my strength to break the spell. Moreover, at least one Maghdi Dasht is in his service.'

'Impossible!' This time, Stella was sure her heart stopped beating for a moment. 'You know the number of the Maghdi Dasht; thirteen thirteens, one hundred and sixty-nine, never more, never less. The whereabouts of all my greatest of servants is known. Unless the rumour of four renegade Maghdi Dasht is true, and they survived their reported deaths. Could this be so?'

'My lord, I trusted the words of those you sent to inves-tigate the stories of Maghdi Dasht in western Faltha,' Deorc answered carefully. 'The messengers I dispatched to the kingdoms of Firanes and Plonya discovered the bodies of men who were undoubtedly Maghdi Dasht, according to the descriptions they gave me. Some calamity had befallen them: their broken bodies were found at the bottom of a gorge, below a bridge that looked to have given way under them. There was, however, evidence of a great battle, with more than a hundred dead in a clearing a short walk from where the renegades were found. Would you care to interrogate these messengers? At least two of them are within the City.'

'You will bring them before me at this hour tomorrow. But first I will search your mind. I wish to learn more of this magician who has you so thoroughly cowed. Draw nigh the fire!'

Gritting his teeth, the head of the Council of Faltha moved closer to the flame, which instantly enveloped him in a fierce blaze. Stella shrieked along with her captor as the Destroyer sifted his servant, searching for any clue as to what had temporarily slowed his inexorable victory.

After a minute or so the flame withdrew. Deorc collapsed to his knees, gasping and retching his pain. The voice spoke again, ignoring Deorc's distress, as though the suffering of his servant was of no account.

'I have seen something in your mind that gives me pause. Do not be alarmed!' the voice cried as Deorc backed away from the blue flame, though there was precious little reassurance in the cold tones. 'You, my faithful servant, have not tried to deceive me, which has saved your life thus far. Know that the first falsehood you tell me will be written on your tomb. I am concerned by something you saw, a great light... reminding me of something I beheld a long time ago. I shall take time to think on this further.