The Broken World Book One - Children of Another God (13 page)

Chanter woke in
black stillness. A heavy weight lay across his hips, and agony
coursed through him in endless waves. Dolana's creeping cold held
him strongly, telling him that he was underground, and he wondered
if he was in a Pit. He tried to call out to his brothers, but his
jaw was broken and his throat slit, so his lips moved silently
around the words. Surely they would know he was here? They would
bring water for healing, if there was any.

Was the Pit
dry? Would he lie in helpless agony for the next seventy-five
years? The thought filled him with despair and a quiet rage that
burnt beside the pain. If he was in a Pit, he was alone, for he
sensed no other Mujar. He tried to sit up, but weakness held him
down and his arms bent, broken above the elbows. The pain of his
movements, though dulled by the cold of Dolana, brought a wave of
sickness, and he slumped back. His only escape was sleep, and he
consigned himself to it, grateful for the blessed unknowing of
oblivion.

Talsy jerked
awake with a gasp as a rat ran over her legs, and it scuttled away.
The smell of sewage and putrefaction made her gag as she crawled
from the shelter of the shanty in which she had spent the night.
The chill morning air nipped her through her clothes, making her
hug her fur jacket closer. Hunger clenched her gut, and the
salt-stiffened lashes of her swollen eyes reminded her of the
weeping that had lulled her into an uneasy sleep the night
before.

The memory of
Chanter's plight sent a pang through her, and she gazed up and down
the filthy street, wondering which way to go. She had to find him.
She could not abandon him now. Searching this filthy, squalid
metropolis was a daunting task, but she would not shirk it. He had
protected her, and she had promised rescue. The thought of the
previous night's horrors brought fresh tears to sting her eyes, and
she cursed, rubbing them as she headed down the alley.

Doctor Jashon
Durb unlocked the door and hurried into the cellar at first light,
eager to assure himself that the events of the previous night had
not been a dream. The golden-skinned unman lay where he had left
him, caked with dried blood. Jashon prodded him with his foot, but
the Mujar's eyes remained closed. Satisfied that his victim was
still helpless, Jashon left the cellar and donned his coat for the
short walk to Tranton's house up the street. Ignoring the beggars
who accosted him, he returned the greetings of merchants and
housewives as he strode along the crowded, cobbled road. Houses
loomed over it, washing strung across it from upper windows. Shops
interspersed them, and their owners raised awnings and set out
produce in anticipation of the day's trade.

Tranton's
modest house leant drunkenly against its neighbour, one side
undermined by wood borer. Once a wealthy man, the Mujar expert now
eked out a meagre living from books and so-called Mujar charms;
bits of black horse hair and dried digits supposedly cut from Mujar
before they were sent to the Pit. The dried fingers and ears were
Trueman, Jashon knew, and possessed none of the powers that Tranton
claimed. Jashon's pounding on the bleached door evinced a response
in the form of an angry shout from within.

The door
squeaked open, and Tranton's scowling face thrust into the gap.
"What the hell - Jashon!"

Jashon pushed
past the elderly man, whose grey beard, stained yellow with spilt
food, straggled across his chest like a malignant fungus. His
greasy hair was pulled away from wrinkled features in a loose pony
tail tied with a dirty leather thong. Jashon closed the door and
faced his old friend, who stared at him in surprise. Tranton's
astonishment turned to disbelieving delight when Jashon told him
what he had in his cellar, and the Mujar expert insisted on
inspecting the prize at once.

They hurried
back to Jashon's house, where Tranton examined the captive with
great excitement.

"By God,
Jashon, I never expected to see one of these bastards again.
They've become very rare. I heard of one that was thrown into a Pit
about three years ago, and there are rumours of a few still bonded
to hill tribes in the mountains. But it's been many years since one
wandered out of the forests and entered a city. Whoever caught him
certainly made sure he isn't going anywhere."

"I want to
dissect him," Jashon stated. "But I heard that some doctors tried
once and the Mujar escaped."

"They were
idiots. They put him on a table, and of course he was then able to
summon the Powers. They got a bit burnt, and the Mujar turned into
a bird. This one is far too badly injured to do anything. Even if
he could turn into a bird, he'd have broken wings."

Jashon nodded
and prodded the Mujar with his boot. "I want to move him to the
medical college. How can we do that?"

"Easy. Put him
in a sack and drag him. So long as he's on the ground, the
Earthpower will keep him weak and stop him from summoning fire. Not
that it would do him any good now. Since these yellow bastards
won't kill, all their powers don't do them much good." He laughed.
"You know the old saying, 'harmless as a Mujar'."

Jashon shook
his head. "I know that. I'm only worried about him escaping."

Tranton
grunted. "He can't. Without healing, he's helpless in any
form."

Jashon fetched
an old potato sack from the pantry, which they pulled over the
Mujar. They lifted the heavy beam off him and dragged him up the
cellar steps. In the street, they received many curious stares, but
Jashon was a well-respected doctor, and the sight of him dragging a
corpse, though odd, did not arouse any suspicions. The guard patrol
offered to help, and Jashon allowed them to haul the Mujar to the
college. It stood in an ornamental garden with a fountain in front
of the entrance, an imposing stone edifice with a steep slate roof
and pale stone walls fortified with black beams.

The guardsmen
dragged the Mujar through the entrance hall and down a flight of
steps to dump him in the laboratory, where crowd of curious doctors
and students gathering as the men left. Jashon revealed his prize
with a flourish and basked in the excited hubbub that followed.
Several apprentices were dispatched to summon elder professors, who
soon arrived to join in the excitement in a subdued fashion. The
prospect of experimenting on a Mujar brought even the dean from the
seclusion of his book-lined study.

A burning pain
in Chanter's belly woke him. Unlike the sharp stabs the thug's
knives had inflicted, this was slow torture. He writhed, his
abdominal muscles becoming rigid, and opened his eyes. He lay on
the floor of a grey-walled room, black beams ran overhead and a
variety of instruments cluttered the tables around him. Fresh blood
oozed from a cut in his midriff and reddened the hands of the
bearded butcher who bent over him, holding a knife. The doctor
smiled, and impotent rage filled Chanter's heart. He glared at the
ring of spectators, who wore avid expressions of excitement and
curiosity. Earthpower froze him, dulling the pain as it drained his
will and denied him Crayash. He struggled weakly, his broken limbs
useless, and some of the Lowmen sniggered. One spat on the floor
next to his head.

"Not feeling so
good, Mujar?" the hatchet-faced torturer mocked him, grinning. "At
last one of your kind does some good, satisfying our curiosity. You
lot have never been any good for anything before. It makes a
change, doesn't it?"

The Lowman's
cruelty fanned the rage that had always smouldered in Chanter's
heart, and it spilt out to burn his blood.

One of the
younger men crowed, "I bet he wishes he could die now!"

Raucous
laughter greeted this, and many adjoining insults were bandied
about, causing more merriment.

The torturer
bent to wield his knife again, slicing open Chanter's gut to pull
it open. The doctors and students leant forward to peer into the
incision, passing comments. Chanter's rage grew in proportion with
his suffering. Dolana filled him, the only Power at his command,
yet his weakness mocked him. Still, he summoned what little
willpower he had left and wielded the Earthpower with a lash of his
mind.

Icy silence
clamped down as the air froze into momentary solidity, and the
utter silence of deep within the Earth pounded at his ears. Chanter
grimaced, struggling to control the icy Power as it slid through
him, calling for change, longing for freedom. It writhed and
slipped in his grasp, a snake of cold force too strong to control
with his weakened will. The manifestation was long, dragged out by
his inability to use the magic. The frigid hush vanished as he lost
his grip on it, letting it sink back into his bones.

Several Lowmen
gasped and staggered as the Power released them, the rest stood
white lipped and hard eyed.

Tranton wheezed
and waved his hands. "Don't worry, he's just trying to change, but
he couldn't do it. Even if he had managed, he's still
helpless."

Jashon turned
to frown at his friend. "Except I don't want to dissect a dog or a
donkey."

Tranton
gestured at the Mujar. "He can't, he's too weak."

"Luckily."

A doctor tapped
Tranton on the shoulder. "The last time someone tried to dissect
one of these bastards -"

"I know,"
Tranton said. "But they put him on a table. This one's helpless, I
assure you. And anyway, Mujar are harmless."

Jashon bent to
widen his cut, pulling aside skin and muscle to reveal shining
viscera. Doctors leant forward eagerly, but their comments were
disappointed.

"Looks the same
as a Trueman."

"Doesn't bleed
very much though, does he?"

Jashon grunted.
"That's because he's not Trueman."

A student
laughed. "If he was Trueman, he'd be dead already."

"Obviously." A
professor shot the boy a caustic glance.

The Mujar tried
to raise his head, but flopped back. Jashon pulled coils of
intestine from the incision and peered deeper into his bowels.

"He has a liver
and kidneys, just like us, only they seem smaller," he commented.
"No fat. No appendix."

Chanter
concentrated on the Dolana again, his longing for release becoming
immense as the doctor poked and prodded amongst his entrails. The
Power twisted within him like a cold silver snake, lithe and
sensuous, a sea of Dolana that filled him to the brim, its
abundance defying him to wield it. Never had he struggled so hard
to grasp it in its fullness. Even when the spear had pinned him to
the icy hillside, his fate had been acceptable.

Blood pounded
in his brain as he strained, and the frozen silence clamped down
again, gripping the Lowmen in cold talons of stillness. This time,
he strived to frighten his tormentors into releasing him. Change
was beyond his strength, but the world that had birthed him knew
the call of her son and shared his substance, for he was a part of
her. The icy hush winked out, and the Lowmen sighed and chuckled.
Chanter sensed the world's response to his need.

A low rumble
started within the ground, like distant thunder, and swelled.
Several Lowmen glanced around, frowning in puzzlement. The torturer
paused to look at a grey-bearded reprobate, who smiled and shook
his head. The rumble deepened and grew louder, and the ground
shook. Lamp fittings rattled on the walls, items vibrated off
tables and clattered or smashed on the floor. Chanter concentrated
on his command, Dolana's talons shredding his will. Tables walked
across the floor, propelled by the vibrations running through it.
Dust fell from the rafters in a gentle rain, powdering the Lowmen
doctors' greasy faces. Some cried out in alarm and tried to run,
but tripped and fell on the shaking floor.

A red cloud
filled Chanter's mind, and warnings prickled his consciousness.
Danger. Screams came from the street. Horses neighed and dogs
barked. The crash of breaking glass slashed his ears with slivers
of sharp dissonance. His will bowed under the weight of the danger,
the dread that he might kill. His grip on Dolana slipped, and he
released it. The rumble died and the shaking stopped, then oblivion
claimed him in consolation.

Jashon glared
at Tranton. "That was him?"

Tranton nodded,
his skin pale under its layer of dirty grease. "Trying to scare us,
that's all."

Jashon looked
down at the mutilated Mujar's peaceful features, then at his
white-faced, diminished audience.

"Seems like he
had some success." He addressed the doctors who were leaving the
room. "What, do you think a Mujar can harm us?"

Most returned,
shame-faced, to their positions, others left anyway. Jashon feigned
utter calm as he continued to cut.

Chapter Seven

Talsy stopped
in confusion when a dull 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 in alarm, cawing, dogs cowered and whimpered, braver ones barked
in warning and defiance. 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. The city sat under a pall of dust, 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.