The Broken World Book One - Children of Another God by T C Southwell
The Broken World Book One
Children of another God
T C Southwell
Copyright © 2012 T C Southwell
Disclaimer
Please note that this is the first book of a series, but the remainder of the series is not available for free.
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. Billowing, wind-torn grey clouds passed overhead. A dark river invaded a pale canyon and turned into a grey wall. Dull, faraway pain washed through him in a gentle tide. Earthpower soaked into him from the cold mountainside on which he lay. Pockets of snow nestled amid the 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 by his clan in war. The mist swirled as it joined the hordes of dead into a sparkling form.
The Lady of Death, Marrana, stalked the battlefield, 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. It turned this way and that as she collected the souls, a thing of beauty and horror, of sorrow and ecstasy; 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; a deathly caress, a 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. He sagged back as she drifted away.
The raven cawed, and Chanter closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he was alone. So, if Death would not take him, 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 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 a skinny bay horse into an unwilling trot. Dolana’s seeping cold embraced 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. One reason 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. Inside 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 Crayash. He only wanted to banish the chill from his bones, but the old man was plainly nervous, so he withdrew. The Lowman leant his staff against the wall and shucked his black cloak, revealing a ragged, dirty brown woollen robe, a grey shift showing at its hem.
The dingy cabin’s log walls were thick with dust. Co
“You asked for help, 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 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 his wound.
The old man looked alert, presumably for the first sign of another Power. A rush of wind and the sound of beating wings filled the room.
The Lowman jumped up and kicked Chanter hard enough to make him grunt. “No Powers!”
Chanter groaned and rolled onto his side. 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 sat down on the 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 a 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 opened 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 a graveyard smell hung about him.
The Lowman refilled his bowl and ate with slow relish. Chanter picked at the scabs on the back of his hand to distract himself. 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.
The Lowman prodded him with his toe. “I’m Mishak. You’ll call me ‘master’, understand?”
Chanter nodded.
Mishak grunted. “When the raven brought news of a living soul amongst the dead I thought it was a man, not a damned Mujar. You, I’d have left till the rain or snow cured you. You have no real need of my help. Why send the raven?”
“Wish.”
“Speak to me, damn you, or I’ll brain you with this poker and you’ll suffer. I’ll tell you my Wish when I’m good and ready.”
Chanter said, “I was pinned. Water would have trapped me.”
“Ah.” Mishak chuckled. “Stuck forever to a mountainside with a spear through your chest, eh? Or was it a sword? No matter. Nasty thought, but no less than you deserve. Damned Mujar scum.” He leant forward. “Well, you’re at my mercy now. I have your name and your gratitude. You’ll do as I say.”
The Mujar nodded again.
Mishak rose and went to the basin to fill another cup. He pushed the Mujar onto his back with a boot, and Chanter braced himself as the stream of water fell onto his chest. Its touch made him writhe, and Mishak smiled and sank onto his chair again.
Chanter relaxed as the spasms eased, wheezing through a dry throat. The wound in his chest had closed, and strength surged through him, along with the urge to escape. He had granted a Wish, however, and must wait to hear it spoken. He sat up and bowed his head.
“You stink up my house,” Mishak said. “Go to the well and wash, then you may eat.”
Chanter rose and went out into the freezing wind, stripped and drew water to scrub away the rotting gore. He washed his torn garments and donned them again, then used a knife he had picked up on his way through the kitchen to scrape the stubble from his chin. His wet apparel clung to him, but the cold did not bother him. Chanter re-entered the house and returned the knife to the table. Mishak watched him from his seat before the fire, eating his stew.
He indicated the pot. “Eat.”
As Chanter spooned stew into a bowl, Mishak put his empty dish aside to study the Mujar. Although he had never seen one up close before, he knew the tales of their powers. He had learnt Mujar lore many years ago, but they were so rare now that he had never thought to see one. Chanter looked young, and possessed the wild beauty of his race.
“What happened to your clan?” Mishak asked.
Chanter glanced at him. “Hashon Jahar.”
“Huh. Black Riders. I hear they’ve started invading the lowlands, too. They wipe out every man, woman and child in their path.” Mishak leant forward. “Their leader is Mujar.”
Chanter concentrated on his food.
Mishak glared at him, then sat back. “Why didn’t you protect your clan?”
“They refused it.”
“Didn’t want the help of a yellow monkey, eh?” He chuckled. “What idiots, to die for the sake of pride. So how were you injured?”
“I went to the battle anyway.”
“Shows how stupid you are. I suppose you thought you’d be safe, being what you are, eh?” Mishak considered. “Your clan thought they could win, didn’t they? They chose to fight, rather than be saved by you. Fools, all of them, and you.”
Chanter’s silence irritated Mishak, and he added, “They could have used you. They had earned your help, why scorn it? Damned proud idiots.” He sighed and scratched his beard. “I guess I should have known what you were, from the raven. No Trueman could have given it a message like that. A vision.” He frowned. “Damned unpleasant, it was, too. Didn’t know you buggers could do things like that. I guess I hoped…” He waved a hand. “No matter. Tomorrow you’ll work for your comforts until I tell you my Wish.”
When Chanter finished his food, Mishak ordered him to lie down and bound his hands and feet. The Mujar accepted the bonds with a frown, and Mishak doused the fire.
“Just so you don’t get any ideas. No Crayash, and the Dolana will keep you quiet all night.” Mishak smiled. “Yes, I know enough about Mujar to hold you to your promise. I also know better than to trust you. You were bonded to the clan, but you’re not bonded to me. You’re going to keep the Wish you granted. It’s important to me.”
Although Chanter did not relish the thought of spending another night in Dolana’s grip, he had little choice. He might have pointed out that if he had wanted to escape he would have done so already, but Mishak did not seem like the sort of man who would enjoy being informed of his ignorance. The old man took the lamp and climbed the creaking stairs to the loft, where he would sleep in the warmth that had gathered under the thatched roof.
Chanter suffered the discomfort of Dolana’s creeping cold, remembering the battle on the snowy hillside. The shouts and screams of dying men echoed in his mind still. The melee had become a whirling
At the outset, his presence amongst the warriors had been loudly condemned, and the men had ordered him to leave. He had hesitated, and a warrior had plunged a spear into his chest. The impact had knocked him down, whereupon his attacker had pushed the spear into the soil, robbing him of his powers. As his clan had been slaughtered, he had wondered why they had refused his help. Now the old Lowman had explained it: pride. A foolish Lowman emotion he neither possessed nor understood. They had thought they could beat the Hashon Jahar, whom they outnumbered threefold.
Chanter’s clan bond had not stipulated any particulars such as protection, only comforts for work. Had they asked him, he would have saved them, but instead they had ensured he could not. After the battle, the Riders had ransacked the village, chasing down women and children. Then the Hashon Jahar had formed up into their orderly columns and ridden out, trampling him. A passing steed’s hoof had delivered the blow that had robbed him of his senses.
The stairs’ creaking roused Chanter from his memories in the morning as Mishak descended them. He washed in the basen, then lighted the fire and fried bacon and eggs in a skillet. Chanter remained silent and still, knowing the old man, like all Lowmen, hated him.
Mishak banged a bowl down beside his prisoner and untied the Mujar’s hands. Mishak longed to question Chanter, but knew he would get few answers. Chanter’s white teeth flashed as he tore at the tough bacon, reminding Mishak of another reason why people hated Mujar. A Trueman in his mid-twenties, as the Mujar appeared to be, would have yellow, decaying teeth, probably with a few missing. He sucked his own sparsely populated gums with a grimace. Mujar retained their physical perfection all their lives, and never became ill or suffered from bad bones or failing sight. Their only signs of ageing were the greying of their ink-black hair and perhaps a few lines on their faces. Mujar lived exactly a hundred years, never a day more or less.