Slow Turns The World (37 page)

He walked on, the sun sinking a little lower with every march. The scattered trees upon the plain held leaves upon their fingers that were turning to brown or gold, and he felt that at last he had returned to the margin of the world that was his home.  Then he climbed a final ridge and saw before him a great herd of grazing beasts, dotted across the plain in a countless multitude; he had found the barak.  He took his telescope and looked to the far distance where the smoke of campfires was faintly visible.  The herd had moved recently, he guessed, leaving the Vasagi to follow.  He walked on, threading his way through the herd, avoiding the dominant males, and breathing deep their musty odour as if it were the fragrance of sweet flowers.

  The plain had become a wide shallow valley that would lead him directly to his people, but he skirted off, up the slope on one side, to an outcrop of rocks that would conceal him.  Watching through the telescope again, he saw the three figures come to the ridge where he had first seen the herd.  They saw the barak, and the smoke of the campfires, and then, after some discussion, they crept cautiously through the herd until they came to a small pond lying in a hollow.  There were many hoof prints all around, suggesting that the barak had drunk thirstily there, and that any passing tribe would likely do the same.  He saw them draw out a bottle from their pack, empty its contents into the water, then hurry up the valley side opposite to hide, where they watched and waited.

Torrin called upon all his skills as a hunter, creeping low to the ground, skirting around the valley floor, and then scrambling unseen towards them.  He crawled on his belly through the grass, until he could peer around a finger of rock, and saw them not too distant.   The dog had caught his scent, and began to bark, but they did not heed the warning.   Instead they stabbed it, repaying its service with a knife blade lest its noise be heard by anyone approaching on the plain.  Torrin thanked them silently for this deed, and crawled a little closer.  He reached for his bow, cursing what he must do, and took three arrows, each with a knife-sharp tip forged in Etoradom.   

They had their backs to him, and did not see him rise from concealment.  His picked his first target, one of the two that had joined the ship in Dh’lass, and let the arrow loose.  The arrowhead pierced the man between the shoulders and erupted from his chest in a spray of blood from his ruptured heart.   The two beside him turned, as Torrin fitted and drew the second arrow.  He aimed at the second target, and the man fell with the shaft buried deep in his breast.    The third man, with the scar face, who had followed him from Etoradom, stood helplessly as Torrin fitted a third arrow to his bow.  Torrin walked towards him, bowstring taught and nodded towards one of the fallen figures.

“Pick him up,” he ordered.

Pale and trembling, the man obeyed, struggling to lift the limp and heavy form over his shoulder.

“Now walk ahead of me, down to the water hole.”

The survivor stumbled and struggled down the slope, glancing anxiously back at the arrow point trained upon him.  Then Torrin stooped and lifted the second body.  Warm blood dripped a trail behind him as he followed, leaving enough distance to drop the burden and use his bow again if it were needed.  They came at last to the water and Torrin let the corpse drop.

“Cast both of them in the water,” he ordered, drawing his bowstring again.

He watched as the man dragged the bodies and left them floating face down with a slick of redness expanding around them.

“Now,” said Torrin, “what to do with you?”

The man sank to his knees, grovelling pathetically, and stammered out:

“I have money.  I can pay you well if you let me live.”

“I am sure you are well paid by your master for this task, and that another payment awaits; one that you will not expect.  These other two were already dead weren't they?  There would be no witnesses to the crime, only one would ever return to Etoradom, only you.”

The expression on the frightened, guilty, face said that this was true.

“You were sent to kill me and the all the Vasagi because soon pilgrims of the new faith will come to seek the tribe of the saviour, and they might discover the truth of the healing powers, the healing powers your master claims are given to him by God.”

“I know nothing of that.  I only came to do what I was paid to do.”

“That I believe; that you did know not the reason, only that the payment was sufficient. Your master does not like failure; but fail or succeed and the final payment is the same.  With you dead only he would know of the crime committed here.  You deserve death as much as any man ever could, but I will not kill you.  Return to your master and give him this...”

Torrin took the pendant of marriage from his neck and tossed it to him.

“Tell him you took this from my body, tell him the Vasagi are dead, that you succeeded in your task. Take the money owed you, then, if you are wise, leave Etoradom quickly and never return.  Go!  Now!”

The scar-faced man hurried away, back eastwards, from where he had come, towards some meeting with the ship he had doubtless arranged, or maybe with some other ship that was already sailing to retrieve him.

Torrin went again to his lookout on the valley side and waited.  The barak passed and were lost in the blaze of the setting sun, and then tiny walking figures appeared in the west.  His felt his heart thumping and a hand within that clutched at his stomach as the Vasagi drew nearer.  He rested his telescope upon the rock that concealed him, and watched through the shaking circular window as the first of the tribe came to the water hole.  He gave a little gasp of joy, and a smile crossed his lips as he saw, walking purposefully at the head of the tribe, the leather-clad figure of Turnal.  Then he nearly laughed aloud to see beside her a smaller version of herself, taking short determined strides, dressed in a little hunter's suit complete with a tiny bow.  The little girl walked proudly next to Turnal, her mother and now chieftain of the Vasagi.  

They came to the water hole and saw the floating bodies.  Turnal called to a man that walked close behind, a proud hunter that Torrin had known, who hurried to her now like an adoring obedient pet.   They looked at the bodies, confused and uncertain, at men of an unknown tribe, in strange clothes, pierced by arrows sharper than any they possessed.  They looked around cautiously, fearful lest they had come across some new enemy that laid in wait around them.

More of the Vasagi gathered, more familiar faces, but some were missing.  Perrith and Casan did not appear, and Torrin guessed that their journey had finished.  It brought a wave of sadness over him that he would never see their faces again, that he not been there to bid them goodbye.  More of the tribe approached, he scanned the telescope back and forth looking for the one face that he had missed most painfully.  Then he saw her, walking across the plain, a small boy at her side.  She was more beautiful even than he remembered and the child beside her echoed her features, combining them with strength and vigour.  He carried a bow of full size, that stood as tall as he did, and as he spoke, smiling, to his mother, both their faces sparkled.

Then she turned towards the boy, and Torrin saw the second child carried upon her back.  A man hurried from behind them and placed an affectionate hand upon their shoulders; it was Rasgan, the pathfinder.  As Torrin watched, a cold barb of stabbing ice seemed to pierce his heart.  He watched as Rasgan unrolled the precious maps of the tribe, and showed his adopted son the way ahead, teaching him the art of the pathfinder.  Rasgan; he was no great hunter, but he was a good man, faithful and kind.  He would love Varna to the ends of their lives.

They did not drink from the water hole but passed on from its waters; waters that were more poisoned than they could guess.  He watched them walk away in their constant pursuit of the setting sun.  To where next on their endless journey?  To the great plain of Kiful; where for many, many moons they would not meet another living man of any tribe.  Where they would vanish from the world, and become invisible.  Where the bloodied hands of distant men could not reach them.  

There was sadness now as the Vasagi passed by and he was left alone in an empty land.   He had been away too long, and travelled too far.   Was he sorry that Varna had a new life?  Could he have become again the man he once had been?  To the Vasagi he was dead; and ghosts are never welcome visitors.  He felt like a ghost now; unrooted, untethered, drifting with no place to call his home.  Well maybe, or maybe not, for somewhere in all the vastness of the world there was a final destination that called faintly, one spark of hope that glimmered dimly.  

He left the lands of the Vasagi for the last time, skirting wide around them and the barak herd.  He followed the path he had come by, across the long plain bathed in the sunset light, until he came again to the sea.  Then, in a shallow cave, with the waves breaking close by, he made a camp.  He waited there for a moon, roaming the hills to hunt for game, picking shellfish from the rocks, soothed to sleep by the murmur of the surf.  He looked to the sea often, scanning the horizon with his telescope, until the time came when he saw the sails and he lit the signal beacon.  Trabbir's ship sliced through the waves towards him.

Trabbir helped Torrin from the small boat that had collected him from the shore.

“You are a true friend,” said Torrin, “to journey so far from your course to collect a man who could only say that he might be here.”

“I will do better still, and carry you on to wherever you ask,” said Trabbir, and hugged him warmly.

“I might ask yet to serve upon your ship,” said Torrin, “for I know the ways of the sea well enough by now.”

“There is a place for you here always.”

 “I thank you for that.  But, there is somewhere else that calls me too, and that is where I must go.”

“So where shall we set sail to?”

“To Hirege, where I once began another journey.”

The journey to Hirege was long, but Trabbir contrived to make it profitable.  They collected cargo from Iranthrir, of herbs, fabrics and ornaments of precious metal.  As the bundles were loaded Torrin walked the city, watched the troops parading through the streets, heard the angry speeches that cursed Etoradom, and saw the young men eager to enlist and serve.   And then, passing through a city square, he saw a small sign daubed upon a wall; the spiral horns that were the mark of Valhad.  

‘Ships do not bring only cargo,’
he thought, ‘
but new thoughts, new beliefs that spread through all the world as if they were alive.’
 

There were war galleys massing in the port, and many more already at sea, that they encountered as they sailed on eastwards.   They passed the wreckage of a Qualze ship that had strayed too far west.   There were only charred bodies, and smashed timbers, bobbing on the waters.  A faint smell still lingered in the air, a sulphurous odour that was not completely unfamiliar.  Torrin remembered the weapon he had seen, the fire that burnt in an instant, that had blown Deacon Gretal into so many pieces, and now it was here upon the sea, doing its awful work.  

He did not leave the ship at Dh’lass, did not risk recognition, for here too he was dead, here too he was a ghost.   But he saw the ghastly, contorted bodies impaled in rows upon the city walls and was told that this was the punishment for the heretics who preached the way of Valhad.   The emblem of the circle and triangle still flew defiantly from the towers.  The city governor, it was said, had declared himself Protector of the True Faith, and now sought to wage holy war, not only on the ungodly of Nejital, but against the heretics and usurpers of Etoradom.

They made the last part of the voyage to Hirege.  The city was quiet, the new banner of the new church, of the new empire, the spiral horns, fluttered from the flagpoles with the smaller flag of the local king fixed below it.  Order had evidently been restored.  He could see priest-soldiers of the empire on the quayside, patrolling with the local militia.  None of the townspeople people seemed inclined now to shout taunts in their direction.  The insurrection was over; crushed, no doubt, in unspeakable and merciless ways.  He went ashore with Trabbir and walked, hooded, through the town.  They came to where the temple had stood and found workmen busy laying new courses of stone.  There was a group of missionary priests from the new church preaching to a growing crowd.

“…And when news of Valhad's wisdom spread throughout the land he was summoned to the Emperor's Palace in the lands of darkness.  And the Emperor said unto him, 'I have brought all the wisest men of the world to look upon this sky and tell me of its nature, but only Thou have brought light to this darkness.'   And all the people gathered there were told by our Saviour of all the many world's that God has made, and then he preached from the Text, reading to them the verses that spoke of this creation, that the scholars of the temple had not understood….”

Trabbir nudged Torrin and gave a little grin.  

“Look,” he whispered, “there you are...”

Stood around the preacher in a crescent, were other priests holding banners that were woven and embroidered to show the life of Valhad.  The first tableau showed Valhad, most handsome and radiant with a glow of light behind him, stood upon a sea of ice.  Kneeling to one side was Torrin, looking up at the saviour's face with an expression of devoted bliss, while Valhad's hand rested upon the head of the sea serpent, halted in its attack and now regarding its prey with adoring submission.  The next banner showed Valhad and Torrin carried on the serpents back to the ship, where His Lordship, Holy Father Tarcen, complete with his own halo, awaited them.

“Not how I remember it,” said Trabbir, with a bitter laugh.

Torrin hushed him and whispered, “You know more than some would wish you to.  Don't tell them their pretty picture is wrong.”

The other illustrations showed Valhad saving the ship by turning the wind, breathing life into the sick of Etoradom, meeting the Emperor, and dying in the arms of Saloxe, whose halo competed in size with that of his saviour.  In fact Saloxe seemed to figure greatly in the pictures, even in episodes where had been absent.