The Broken World Book One - Children of Another God (14 page)

Soon, she left
the maze of hovels behind and entered the garbage-filled market
place, 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 had
broken out of flimsy cages or pens and ran about in bleating,
honking or bawling herds, their yelling, angry owners in pursuit.
House owners inspected the damage to their property and cursed,
counting the cost with scowls. In the confusion, she snatched up
some fallen fruit and vegetables, ducking into a side street to eat
them. While she was occupied with this pleasant task, a lathered
horse galloped into the marketplace, and its exhausted rider slid
from its back, almost into the arms of a group of guardsmen. His
hoarse cries filled the already tense air with further anxiety and
dread.

"The Black
Riders are coming!"

Talsy craned
around the edge of the building beside which she crouched,
straining to hear the more subdued conversation with the guardsmen.
Snatches of it reached her.

"...Two days
away... Thousands... Heading straight here..."

Cold dread
chilled her, robbing her of her hunger. People ran about in greater
confusion, demanded more information, passed the news to the
uninformed, and asked what to do and where to go. Talsy 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 reached in to cut out his
beating heart. The doctor held it up, still throbbing, 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
leant forward to gaze into the Mujar's chest. "It seems that Mujar
are very similar to us, Jashon. So far all we've seen is a slight
improvement on our own design, but basically identical."

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, yet Mujar are the same as us."

"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, scowling at it as it ceased to
beat. "I refuse to believe that we're related to these useless
yellow scum."

Chanter stared
at the ceiling. The pain of his chest being pulled open had dragged
him from the peace of oblivion. Everything had become dim and
distant, the doctors' voices a faraway mumbling. His blood had
stopped coursing, and his heart's ever-present beat was absent,
leaving pain as the only sensation. Dolana held him helpless in its
freezing grip, but mercifully numbed the pain. A nearby animal mind
sparked some interest deep within 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 turned and scuttled away.

The Lowmen
tugged and pushed at his insides, sent waves of burning pain
through him and forced him to retreat deeper into himself to escape
it. Closing his eyes, he called on sleep to claim him, and it
washed away the pain with gentle waves of darkness.

Jashon walked
back to his house with Tranton, deep in thought. The Mujar's
disappointing 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, even if it was not his fault. They had
probably expected a refund, he thought bitterly. He hardly noticed
the fearful 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. The damage from the tremor filled the street
with broken glass and plaster, which crunched beneath the
pedestrians' feet as they hurried on their way.

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
glanced around at 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 china
collection, and surveyed the damage in the lounge with a frown.
Years of painstaking decoration had been ruined in a few minutes of
rumbling. His plump wife rushed out of the kitchen and grabbed his
arm, her face drawn with fear, tear streaks ruining her buxom
beauty. 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!"

Jashon stared
at her. "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 gripped her shoulders. "It's a mistake!"

She shook her
head. "A rider brought the news. We must flee!"

"Where to?"
Jashon demanded. "They'll catch up with us out in the open if we
do." Dread washed through him. His life as a respected doctor in a
big city was threatened, and his numb brain struggled to accept
it.

She wailed,
"We'll be killed! The Hashon Jahar leave no survivors. They
slaughter all in their path!"

"Yes. We must
fight! We have an army, the city has walls. We must defend it, not
run away."

"Most of the
soldiers have already fled with their families! All that remain are
old men and young boys. Everyone is leaving, the bridges are
choked!"

Jashon sank
into a chair, his legs weak. His wife flapped her hands and wailed,
trying to get him to respond to her hysterical demands. He stared
into space, and she ran back to her packing. His world had fallen
apart, destroyed by the mere rumour of approaching marauders. Now
he understood the hysteria in the streets and the dull-eyed panic
of the population as they ran about amid the detritus. 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 lavishly decorated cream and white
bedroom to help her pack, filled with despair. The heavy purses
that swung from his belt hampered him as he bent to pack his
clothes into a leather bag. Jashon straightened with a grunt of
realisation. Mujar had the power to do anything.

Excited, he
ignored his wife's angry exclamation and abandoned her to hurry to
the front door. Even as he reached it, it burst open and Tranton
rushed in, almost colliding with him.

"You've heard?"
Tranton gasped.

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?" Tranton
looked confused.

"The Mujar. 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 so much at our mercy before. He'll do it to escape the
pain."

"He won't.
Forget it, pack your belongings, we must leave at once."

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."

Grabbing his
coat, Jashon marched into the busy street. Tranton hesitated, his
expression despairing, then trotted after him, his dirty grey robes
flapping around his skinny legs.

Talsy rested
beside a run-down house's peeling wall, tucked away out of the
stream of fleeing people, carts and horses that had buffeted her
since the alarm had been raised. The wild-eyed masses streamed
eastwards through the city 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 that she must. Her first stop had been the
town jail, where they might have held him before they took him to
the Pit. Now she struggled towards the soldiers' barracks.

A crier took up
his stance not far away and pulled out a rolled up parchment.
Unrolling it, he 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 charged 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 bustle slowed as people absorbed this astounding
news and checked their mad rush for the bridges and a way out of
the city. A great wail of despair and denial went up, and a crowd
descended on the crier and beat him senseless. Talsy left her
shelter and hurried towards the city gates, stopping along the way
to ask a soldier where the barracks were. The harassed man gestured
and marched away on some urgent errand. When she found it in a
broad cobbled square close to the city centre, the soldiers who
usually inhabited it were absent, but the grey stone building's
cells held only frightened pickpockets and street thugs who could
not be accommodated in the jail.

When she
emerged, dusk sucked the light from the sky as the sinking sun drew
its veil of luminescence with it, and night crawled in its wake.
Talsy's feet and legs ached from a day of walking and running,
dodging and climbing steps. She pulled a carrot from her jacket and
munched it, settling into a sheltered corner where the barrack's
roof overhung. The building's location meant that she had a good
view of several broad streets that met at the square. The cries of
distant mobs echoed through the city as men armed with torches and
swords patrolled the streets to capture looters and deliver summary
execution to those they caught trying to climb over the outer
walls.

Other groups of
citizens marched through the square in protest of the governor's
order, clashing with loyalists in brief, bloody, torch lit battles.
Surging crowds roared and dying men screamed. Feet pounded on the
cobblestones as cowards tried to flee, the shouting pursuit of
righteous citizens following them. Chaos reigned in the city this
night, and Talsy huddled in her corner, buffered against the night
chill by her jacket, unnoticed and alone. Her wounded arm ached.
The cut had turned a nasty yellow, and she kept it bound with a
rag. It needed to be washed with clean spring water, but none
flowed in the dirty city. Cradling the throbbing limb, she closed
her eyes and let sleep wash over her in a welcome tide, cutting off
the shouts and screams of the beleaguered city.

A rough slap on
his battered face woke Chanter, and stabs of pain shot from his
broken jaw. He opened his eyes to find a ring of hostile faces
looming over him. Numerous lanterns lighted the scene, and the
gimlet-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 ring to kneel 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," one of the spectators pointed out.

Jashon dropped
Chanter with a growl and demanded a cup of water. A youngster ran
off, returning after a minute to place one in his hand. Jashon
trickled a little liquid onto the Mujar's throat and chin. Chanter
stiffened as the pain flared, unable to do more than quiver in
response to his agony. His broken jaw and slashed throat healed,
and he drew in a shuddering breath, blessed air wheezing through
his dry, blood-clotted windpipe. The Power of Shissar flowed into
his chest, but dwindled to nothing before it could do any more
good.

Jashon glared
him. "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."

Jashon looked
shocked. "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. "Told you he wouldn't do it."

Jashon glanced
around in annoyance. "I haven't finished yet, Tranton." 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 brought his fist
down on 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.