The Broken World Book One - Children of Another God by T C Southwell
Most returned, shame-faced; others left anyway. Jashon feigned calm as he continued to cut.
Chapter Seven
Talsy stopped when a rumbling started in the distance, then crouched as the ground trembled. Beggars and pickpockets scuttled for shelter, and within moments the street was deserted. She had experienced earth tremors before, but none as violent as this. The shanties swayed as the shivering increased, and one down the street collapsed in a cloud of dust and a scream from within. Crows flew up, cawing, dogs cowered and whimpered; braver ones barked. The huts rattled as the shaking grew worse, a deep-throated rumble filling the air with malignant power. A woman clutching a wailing infant ran screaming from a hovel as it caved in behind her.
The trembling stopped and the rumble faded, rolling away across the hills. Talsy jumped aside as a loose horse galloped past to vanish into the slums. A pall of dust rose, black smoke streaking the brown haze as fires broke out. Jabbering people ran around, put out fires and searched for loved ones. Talsy hurried up the street in the direction whence the horse had appeared, for the beast must have come from a more affluent area.
Soon, she left the maze of hovels behind and entered the garbage-filled marketplace, where pandemonium reigned. People ran about, shouted and extinguished fires where braziers and cooking stalls had spilt their smouldering contents. Muttering merchants gathered up fallen produce and mourned broken pottery. Many stalls were barrows with awnings, and these had faired quite well, but some older stalls, built from rotting timbers or loose stones, had collapsed.
Livestock, freed from cages and pens, dashed around in bleating, honking or bawling herds, their yelling owners in pursuit. House owners inspected the damage to their property and cursed. Talsy snatched up some fallen fruit and vegetables and ducked into an alleyway. While she was eating, a lathered horse galloped into the marketplace, and its exhausted rider slid off, almost into the arms of a group of guardsmen. His hoarse shout rang out.
“The Black Riders are coming!”
Talsy craned around the corner, straining to hear the more subdued conversation with the guardsmen. Snatches of it reached her.
“…Two days away… Thousands… Heading straight here…”
Dread made Talsy’s empty stomach knot. People milled, demanded more information, passed the news to the uninformed, and asked what to do and where to go. She stuffed the pilfered food into her jacket, her anxiety redoubling. She had to find Chanter before the Black Riders arrived, and now she had less than two days to do it.
Jashon sawed through the Mujar’s breast bone, and a student pulled his ribcage open so Jashon could cut out his beating heart. He held it up for his peers to inspect.
“Same as ours,” one commented. The audience had become bored. So far, the differences they had found in Mujar anatomy were negligible.
Another doctor peered into the Mujar’s chest. “It seems that Mujar are very similar to us.”
Jashon studied the beating heart. “Indeed. Strange, don’t you think? You’d think that a creature with such alien powers would be anatomically different.”
“Then perhaps the theory that they’re the blighted offspring of wild mountain women is true.”
Jashon shook his head. “I’ve never believed that theory. Those girls couldn’t live long enough to raise a child, and if that was true, they’d be able to breed with us.”
“Not necessarily,” an aged professor pointed out. “Mules are sterile.”
Jashon dropped the Mujar’s heart on the floor, and it ceased to beat. “I refuse to believe that we’re related to these useless yellow bastards.”
Chanter stared at the ceiling. The pain of his chest being pulled open had dragged him back to consciousness. Everything was dim and distant; the doctors’ voices a faraway mumbling. His blood had stopped coursing and his heartbeat was absent. Dolana held him helpless, but numbed the pain. A nearby animal mind sparked some interest in him, and he sensed the movement of a rat behind a wall not far away. Concentrating, he used a little Earthpower, just enough to mind-lock briefly with the animal, relaxing as it scuttled away.
The Lowmen tugged and pushed at his insides, sent fresh waves of pain through him and forced him to retreat deeper into himself. Closing his eyes, he called on sleep to claim him, and it washed the horror away with gentle waves of darkness.
Jashon walked back to his house with Tranton, deep in thought. The Mujar’s examination had made several of his peers mutter about the money they had wasted, and he sensed that he had lost status in their eyes. They had probably expected a refund, he thought bitterly. He hardly noticed the people who scurried along the street, or the loose animals and their pursuers, although some brushed past him rudely in their haste. When he did take note, he blamed it on the earthquake earlier. Broken glass and plaster crunched under his boots.
At his door, he bade Tranton goodnight and entered his modest dwelling, cursing when he stepped on broken glass inside. He closed the door and surveyed the bare shelves and smashed ornaments on the floor. It had cost him a significant amount to furnish his house with good quality fittings and velvet curtains, expensive rugs and satin-covered chairs. He was particularly proud of his pottery collection, and frowned at the damage in the lounge. Years of painstaking decoration had been ruined in a few minutes of shaking. His wife rushed out of the kitchen and grabbed his arm, her pale face glistening with tears. Her brown hair straggled from its bun and dirt streaked her lacy blue gown. Jashon patted her hand, not listening to her hysterical gabble.
“It was just an earthquake,” he soothed. “Nothing to worry about.”
She shook him. “I’m not worried about the earthquake! We must flee! The Black Riders are coming!”
“The Black Riders?”
“Yes! Hashon Jahar! Two days away, coming here!”
“No, there must be some mistake. Hashon Jahar have never attacked a big city like Horran.” Jashon grasped her shoulders. “It’s a mistake!”
She shook her head. “A messenger brought the news. We must flee!”
“Where to?” he demanded. “They’ll catch us out in the open.” Fear squeezed his heart. His life as a respected doctor in a big city was threatened, and he struggled to accept it.
“We’ll be killed! The Hashon Jahar slaughter all in their path!”
“Yes. We must fight! We have an army and walls. We must defend the city!”
“Most of the soldiers have already fled with their families! All who remain are old men and young boys. Everyone is leaving; the bridges are choked!”
Jashon sank onto a chair. His wife flapped her hands and wailed, trying to make him respond to her hysterical demands. He stared into space, and she ran back to her packing. His world was falling apart, destroyed by the mere rumour of approaching marauders. He would have to leave behind all he had worked for and give up a comfortable life for a slight chance of survival in the woods.
Even if they reached another town, it would take years to regain what he lost today. He rose and went into the bedroom. The heavy purses on his belt hampered him as he bent to pack his clothes into a leather bag. Jashon straightened with a grunt. Mujar had the power to do anything.
Ignoring his wife’s anxious queries, he hurried to the front door. As he reached it, it burst open and Tranton dashed in, almost colliding with him.
“You’ve heard?” Tranton asked.
Jashon nodded.
“I’ve come to ask to ride with you in your wagon. I have no beasts.”
“We don’t have to flee. We have the answer in the college.”
“What?”
“The Mujar,” Jashon said. “He can protect the city.”
“But he won’t!”
“We must make him.”
Tranton shook his head. “You’d be wasting your time. He won’t do it.”
“We’ve never had a Mujar at our mercy before. He’ll do it to escape the pain.”
“He won’t. Forget it, pack your belongings. We must leave at on
Jashon thrust his friend aside. “I’m going to try. It’s our only hope. If we flee, we’ll be hunted down like rats.”
Jashon grabbed his coat and marched into the busy street. Tranton hesitated, then trotted after him, his dirty grey robes flapping around his skinny legs.
Talsy rested beside a run-down house’s peeling wall, sheltered from the fleeing people, carts and horses that had buffeted her since the alarm had been raised. The wild-eyed masses streamed eastwards to choke the bridges across the river, and she wondered how many would be pushed off and swept away to die in the muddy torrent. She had no idea how she was going to find Chanter; she only knew she must. Her first stop had been the town jail, where they might have held him before they took him to a Pit. The next prospect was the soldiers’ barracks.
A crier took up his stance not far away, unrolled a parchment and shouted in ringing tones, “Hear ye! Hear ye! A proclamation from His Grace, the Governor of Horran! The city gates are being closed! No more citizens will be allowed to flee! All able-bodied men are to report to the armoury, where they will be given weapons. The city of Horran will fight the Black Riders! We will not run! The penalty for treason is death! This is the order of Cusak, Governor of Horran!”
The panic-stricken stampede slowed and a great wail went up. A mob beat the crier senseless. Talsy hurried towards the city gates, pausing to ask a soldier where the barracks were. The harassed man pointed and marched away. She found the billets in a broad cobbled square close to the city centre, but the soldiers were absent and the cells held only pickpockets and street thugs who could not be accommodated in the jail.
When she emerged, the sinking sun withdrew its luminescence, and night crawled in its wake. Talsy’s feet and legs ached from a day of walking, running, and climbing steps, and her stomach rumbled. She settled into a sheltered corner under the barrack’s overhanging roof, pulled a carrot from her pocket and munched it. The location gave her a good view of the four broad streets that met at the square. Shouts and screams echoed through the city as armed men with torches hunted looters and delivered summary execution to those they caught trying to climb over the outer walls.
Citizens marched to the square to protest the governor’s order, and clashed with loyalists in brief, bloody, torch lit battles. Fighting mobs roared and dying men screamed. Feet pounded as cowards fled, the shouting pursuit of righteous citizens following them. Talsy huddled in her corner, hugging herself to ward off the chill. Her wounded arm ached. The cut had turned a nasty yellow, and she had bound it with a rag. It needed to be washed with clean water, but there was none in the city. Cradling the throbbing limb, she closed her eyes and tried to sleep.
A rough slap woke Chanter, and pain shot from his broken jaw. He opened his eyes to find a ring of hostile faces glaring down at him. Numerous lanterns lighted the hard-eyed throng. A strenuous argument was being shouted in the background, and the man who had slapped Chanter turned his head to call, “He’s awake!”
Chanter’s torturer pushed through the crowd to squat beside the Mujar and thrust his hatchet face close. “Do you want healing, Mujar?”
Chanter gazed at him, unable to speak with a slashed throat. The Lowman gripped the Mujar’s shoulders and shook him, sending fresh waves of pain through him. “Answer me! I’m offering you healing, comforts.”
“He can’t speak with a cut throat, Jashon,” a spectator pointed out.
Jashon dropped Chanter with a growl and demanded a cup of water. A youngster ran off, returning after a minute to hand him one. Jashon trickled a little liquid onto the Mujar’s throat and chin. Chanter tensed and quivered as the pain flared. His jaw and throat healed, and he drew a shuddering breath, wheezing through a dry, blood-clotted windpipe. The Power of Shissar flowed into his chest, but dwindled to nothing before it could do any more good.
Jashon said, “Now, answer me. Do you want healing, comforts?”
Chanter coughed. “Yes.”
“There’s an army of Black Riders approaching the city. Defend us, and we’ll heal you and give you comforts for the rest of your life.”
“No.”
“You want to suffer? To go to the Pit?”
“No.”
“Then defend the city, and we’ll spare you.”
“No.”
A voice spoke from the back of the crowd. “I told you he wouldn’t do it.”
Jashon glanced over his shoulder. “I haven’t finished yet.” He turned back to Chanter. “I can make you suffer more, Mujar scum. I can make you wish you could die.”
Chanter met the Lowman’s small brown eyes with calm hatred. Jashon punched the Mujar’s mutilated belly, and agony swept through Chanter, dulling his senses again. Rough hands battered his face, pulling him back from the brink of oblivion.
“Come on, you dirty yellow bastard!” Jashon snarled. “You’ll not escape me. I have two days to torture you, so make it easy on yourself. Defend the city, and you’ll receive healing and comforts.”
“No Wish.” Blood bubbled in Chanter’s throat, and he swallowed.
A man with a filthy yellow beard elbowed his way to the front of the throng. “You’re wasting your time. We should fetch our weapons from the armoury, now that we can no longer escape.”
Jashon’s scowl deepened. “We’d never have made it to the gates before they were closed, Tranton. Go and get a weapon if you want. I’m going to make this bastard co-operate. Just tell me what ‘no Wish’ means.”
“He means that he doesn’t owe you anything. You haven’t done anything for him, so he has no Gratitude, and therefore he won’t grant you a Wish.”
“I’m not asking for a bloody Wish! I’ll make him beg for mercy first, then, when he agrees to help, he’ll get his damned healing.”
“It won’t work.”
“He doesn’t know what suffering is yet.”
Tranton stroked his beard. “Oh, I reckon he may have a fair idea.”
Jashon stood up. “Bring me spikes, irons, and cutters, and light a brazier.”
Over the next two hours, Jashon drove spikes into Chanter’s flesh, burnt him with red-hot irons and smashed his fingers, then pulled out his finger and toenails. The crowd dwindled as its members lost interest and went to collect their weapons. Another two hours passed while Jashon twisted the Mujar’s broken limbs, pinched his flesh in iron instruments and cut off fingers, toes, ears and skin. Tranton, perched on a table, sighed, yawned, scratched and shook his head.
When the lanterns spluttered, Jashon wiped sweat from his forehead, his thin face lined with frustration and anger. He rose and went to the door, pausing there to glare at Chanter.
“Tomorrow I’ll carry on, Mujar. You will agree in the end.”
Tranton grunted, and Chanter turned his head away, closed his eyes and called down sleep’s dark curtain as the Lowmen left.
Talsy woke at dawn, cold and stiff. Shivering, she pulled her jacket closer, her arm throbbing. A pair of little black eyes in a shadow gave her a twinge of fear. From their size and spacing, they were rat’s eyes, and she wondered why such a timid creature would stare at her so boldly. As she groped for a rock, it darted towards her. Talsy recoiled, trying to pull her legs out of its way and scramble to her feet. Tiny claws scratched her ankle, and a vision slammed her back against the wall like a red-hot spike through her brain.
A dingy room with black beams and a grey ceiling was crowded with men dressed in robes of various shades of dirt, from almost white to nearly brown. They stared down at her, and she sensed pain and helpless imprisonment mingled with the metallic smell of blood, all dulled by cold.
Talsy slumped as the vision faded, her heart pounding. For a moment, she had shared Chanter’s mind, sensed his pain and seen his surroundings. The rat had brought her a plea for help. He was badly injured, held captive by the men who tortured him. She frowned, recalling the vision. Most of the men wore woven blue belts, the symbol of a doctor. She rose and set off down the deserted street in search of
Jashon rose early, left his anxious wife with reassuring promises, and made his way to the medical college. Most of the doctors and students attended the Mujar’s torture, their studies forgotten in the face of the coming disaster. Jashon devised new methods of torture and tried any that his peers suggested. He laid gold on the Mujar’s skin and rubbed salt into his wounds, followed by every imaginable poison and finally acid. The unman groaned and sometimes cried out, and Jashon slapped him awake whenever he seemed liable to slide away into oblivion. Through it all, his reply remained the same, and by the afternoon Jashon was at his wit’s end. Tranton sat on a table and mocked his friend.
“I told you, you’re wasting your time.”
“Shut up!” Jashon snarled. “I haven’t given up yet.”
“Well, you should.” Tranton sighed and stroked his beard. “You can’t make a Mujar do anything he doesn’t want to do.”
A commotion at the door heralded the entrance of a tall man followed by a gaggle of grey-robed advisors and four guards in red and gold livery. The newcomer’s gold-trimmed purple cloak swept the floor, and a ruffled grey silk shirt spilt from his fur-lined, brocaded waistcoat. Well-tailored black trousers and dark brown boots completed his ensemble. Iron-grey hair receded from his high temples, his steel-grey eyes glinted and his hooked nose hung over a thin-lipped mouth.
“Governor.” Jashon rose and bowed, straightening his robes. Tranton tried to groom his straggly beard while the others tidied themselves as best they could. Cusak frowned at the mangled Mujar.
“I’ve heard about what you’re trying to do here, Doctor Durb, and commend you for your efforts. I take it you’re still unsuccessful?”
“Yes, Your Grace, but I haven’t given up yet.”
“What haven’t you tried?”
Jashon hesitated. “We’ll think of more things to try, Your Grace.”
Cusak nodded. “It looks like you’ve been doing a good job.”