The Broken World Book One - Children of Another God (2 page)

The Lowman
prodded the Mujar with his toe. "I am Mishak. You will 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 raised
his head. "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 with water. Returning to his
captive, he pushed the Mujar onto his back with a boot. Chanter
braced himself as the stream of shining water fell onto his chest.
Its touch made him writhe, and Mishak smiled. He sank into his
chair again, watching the Mujar's suffering with evident
satisfaction.

Chanter relaxed
as the spasms eased, his gasps a painful wheeze through a dry
throat. The wound in his chest had closed, and strength surged
through him, along with the urge to escape. He could not leave,
however, he had granted a Wish and must wait to hear it spoken. He
sat up and bowed his head.

"I promised you
comforts," Mishak said, "but you stink up my house. Go out to the
well and wash, then you may eat."

Chanter rose
and headed for the door. In the freezing wind, he stripped off his
clothes and drew water from the well to scrub away the rotting
gore. He washed his torn garments and donned them again, using 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, returning the
knife to the table where he had found it. Mishak watched him from
his seat before the fire, eating his stew.

He gestured to
the pot. "Eat."

Chanter spooned
stew into a bowl, and 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've granted me
a Wish for comforts, and you're going to keep it. 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 wished 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 wooden 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 confusion
when the Black Riders had charged, lances lowered to skewer
screaming victims on razor tips. He had been pinned to the ground,
splattered with the blood of those who died around him and the mud
kicked up by the Riders' steeds.

At the outset,
his presence amongst the warriors had been loudly condemned, and
the men had ordered him to leave the battlefield. He had hesitated,
wishing to remain, and a warrior, incensed by his apparent
defiance, had plunged a spear into his chest. The unexpected 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 did
not possess or understand. They had thought they could beat the
Hashon Jahar, whom they outnumbered threefold, but had lost.

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 that he could not. After the battle,
the Riders had ransacked the village, chasing down the 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 when
Mishak climbed down them. He went to the basin and washed, lighted
the fire, then fried bacon and eggs in a skillet. Chanter remained
silent and still, knowing that the old man, like all Lowmen, hated
him.

Mishak banged a
bowl down beside his prisoner and untied the Mujar's hands,
allowing him to sit up and eat. 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.

The mystery of
their origins still baffled even the wisest of men. Many theories
were bandied about, the most popular being that they were the
blighted offspring of the mad, wild women infected with the dreaded
qulang disease. Young girls sometimes picked up this strange
illness while foraging in the woods, but men never got it. The
disease made them progressively more unstable until their villages
cast them out to die in the wilderness. The theory was that these
women mated with the legendary golden men of the hills and bore the
strange male children, Mujar. How the madwomen raised the boys was
a mystery too, for they seldom lived long in the wilderness.

Mishak finished
his food and looked down at Chanter, who sat with his head bowed,
the empty bowl beside him. With a groan, the old man rose to his
feet.

"Untie your
legs, then work. Clean the house, do the washing and cut firewood.
Understand?"

Chanter nodded,
and Mishak went outside to sit in the sun and warm his bones, but
the chill wind nipped his nose and soaked through his clothes,
forcing him back to the fire. He watched the Mujar work, fascinated
by the strange, graceful way in which he moved. Chanter dusted and
polished, his hands accomplishing separate and entirely different
tasks with ease, as if they had minds of their own.

Some learned
surgeons had tried to dissect a Mujar once, Mishak reflected, but
the results had been predictable. Their subject had objected rather
strongly to being disembowelled, and had used the Powers to protect
himself. The surgeons had escaped with only a few burns and
bruises, for Mujar were reluctant to harm others, even Truemen.

The Mujar
mystery remained unsolved. Even torture could not force them to
reveal their origins, and their tormentors had deduced that Mujar
did not know. Fortunately they were sterile, and the women foolish
enough to mate with them never conceived.

Mishak spotted
Chanter heading for the front door and jerked from his reverie.
"Chanter!"

The Mujar
halted, turning to face his captor. "Yes, master."

"Where are you
going?"

"Firewood."

Mishak glanced
around. Everything was swept, polished and washed. He rose and
approached the Mujar, who was a little taller, his hair almost
brushing the lintel. At Mishak's nod, Chanter opened the door and
stepped out into the freezing wind that blew up the valley.
Muttering peevishly, Mishak donned his cloak and joined him,
standing in the lee of the house, where he could watch the Mujar
work.

Chanter plucked
the axe from the block and fell to his task with a will. The pile
of branches dwindled rapidly as he cut them into logs for the fire.
Halfway through, he stripped off his torn leather tunic, sweat
trickling down his chest. No scar marked it where yesterday the
huge wound had been. The lean muscles of his torso rippled as he
worked tirelessly through the morning.

Mujar would
have made good slaves, Mishak mused, if only they could have been
controlled. Chanter's name gave the old man enough power over him
to ensure that he did as he was told while in Mishak's company, but
not enough to hold him should he decide to break his gratitude. He
must tell the Mujar his Wish soon, then Chanter was bound to fulfil
it.

When Chanter
had stacked the last of the logs, the old man followed him back
into the house. The Mujar curled up on the floor before the fire,
ignoring his captor. Mishak watched him suspiciously for a moment,
but the Mujar made no attempt to reach for the flames. Chanter had
completed the tasks that should have taken a whole day before
mid-afternoon. Mishak took a ham from a hook under the rafters and
hacked a few pieces off, sliced some bread, and joined the
Mujar.

Chanter ate his
share while gazing into the fire, apparently lost in thought.
Questions burnt within the old man, but he knew the futility of
asking a Mujar. He ate his lunch in silence, washing it down with
home-made mead.

Chanter turned
to him. "Wish."

Mishak sighed.
"Yes. My Wish. I have a son, twenty winters old. Last spring King
Garsh's men press-ganged him into the army and took him away. I'm
growing old. Soon I'll need him to take care of me. I didn't breed
a son to die for King Garsh. You will find him and bring him home,
Mujar."

"If he's
alive."

"They couldn't
have killed him already!" Mishak banged down his cup, slopping
mead. "His name is Arrin. He has red hair and brown eyes. Find him
and bring him to me!"

The Mujar
inclined his head. "Granted."

He rose fluidly
to his feet, and the air swelled with a gathering Power.

Mishak grabbed
the poker. "No Powers in my house! Out, Mujar scum!" Mishak heaved
himself out of his chair and brandished the poker. "Fail me, and
I'll curse your name! I'll send you to a Pit!"

Chanter backed
away, turned to open the door and stepped out into the wind. Mishak
followed, curious. Outside, a watery sun shone through grey clouds.
The icy wind cut through his robe and soaked into his aged flesh,
chilling his bones. He clutched the poker and gazed at the Mujar,
now freed by the speaking of his Wish. Chanter stood poised, at one
with the elements, the wind plucking at his clothes and hair. He
raised his face to its icy caress, his perfect profile and pale
eyes at once savage and beautiful.

Mishak sensed
the swelling of a Power, and wondered which one Chanter would use.
The Mujar took a few quick steps and leapt high, vanishing with a
gust of wind and the sound of beating wings. In his place, a barred
daltar eagle rose with powerful sweeps of long pinions. Mishak
watched the bird until it was a dot against the sky's grey glare,
then looked away with watering eyes. Ashmar. Chanter had used the
Power of Air to change into a creature of that element.

Mishak shook
his fist at the dwindling dot. "You bring my son back, you
scum!"

This was the
main reason Truemen hated Mujar. They commanded the elements, and
could perform feats that Truemen would describe as magic, yet they
had the souls of beggars. They lacked pride, ambition, and even
self-respect. Nothing could hold them. They vanished whenever they
chose, taking on the form they required, for the only thing they
seemed to value was freedom. They did not love, nor did they have
loyalty or honour. They did not use their powers for good or evil,
but lived their hundred years without purpose, content never to use
the magic Truemen so envied.