The Broken World Book One - Children of Another God (35 page)

The Mujar
glanced at her. "You long for your own kind?"

"Not really,
but if there are people there, how did they escape the Black
Riders?"

"Then we'll go
and see, tomorrow."

The following
morning, they set off up the coast, and within a few hours came
across a huddle of tents and hastily erected shacks in a clearing
by the beach. Talsy grew excited at the prospect of meeting people
again, and especially finding out why they had been spared. Chanter
stopped before they reached the settlement, and she slid from his
back with the bag. He reverted to man form and, after studying the
Trueman settlement, turned to her.

"Go and speak
to them if you wish. I'll remain here unless you need me."

Talsy nodded,
understanding his reluctance to enter the camp. Leaving the bag
with him, she followed a narrow path that wandered through the
rocks. People worked amongst the tents and shacks, cleaning skins,
salting fish, cooking, washing or mending clothes. They stopped
work to watch her pass, some greeting her with smiles and
cheerfulness, belying the gloom and death that hung over the land.
Most were young women, with a smattering of elderly crones and
young boys. The few mature men seemed to be honest farmers or
tradesmen. She wandered around until a friendly freckle-faced girl
of about fifteen offered her a meal and took her to a crone cooking
a pot of stew. The meaty aroma made Talsy's mouth water, and she
accepted a bowl from the old woman and settled down on a wooden
stool to consume it.

The matron
smiled. "Hungry, are you, missy?"

Talsy nodded,
her mouth full.

"I'm surprised
you look as fit as you do, wandering alone in the wilderness. What
happened? Was your party attacked by brigands?"

"No." Talsy
frowned. "I had no party."

"You look too
young to be a seer. Who warned you?"

"Warned me of
what?"

The crone's
smile dwindled, and her eyes grew wary. "You are one of the chosen,
aren't you?"

Talsy almost
touched the Mujar mark on her forehead. "Yes, I'm one of the
chosen. How did your people escape the Black Riders?"

The old woman's
smile broadened in relief. "We're all chosen here. I was the seer
of my village, and I received the vision that told us to leave.
Only good people who don't judge would be saved, I was told." Her
smile vanished and she frowned. "I had to leave my son behind. The
vision warned that if there was one amongst us who judged and
hated, the Hashon Jahar would hunt him down and slay him."

Talsy, who had
stopped eating to listen in rapt fascination, put her spoon down.
"You mean, all of you are... You don't hate Mujar?"

"That's right.
We're the chosen. There are five seers here, besides myself. Each
had the same dream and brought their people out of the doomed
villages. None of us hate Mujar."

"That's
wonderful!" Talsy grinned. "Then you're all saved! You're the
worthy!"

"I'm Sheera,
and I'm proud to be amongst the chosen," the old woman went on. "I
knew a Mujar when I was young, and I saw him dragged away and flung
into a Pit. You'll find that almost everyone here has either known
a Mujar or is the child of one who has. We know they're good,
simple people, and we have nothing against them. Only the proud and
ignorant condemned them, and now they've paid the price. It's a
terrible thing, of course. My son was a foolish boy, he wouldn't
listen to me when I told him about Mujar."

Sheera turned
at a groan from the shack behind her and excused herself to rise
and enter it. Talsy ate the stew without tasting it. Just as
Chanter had said, the fate of the world had indeed changed. She
gazed around the camp. Over a hundred people lived here, all
touched by the peace and humility of Mujar, destined to continue
the Trueman race. Surely there were more in other settlements like
this all over the land. Flocks of sheep and goats, as well as a
herd of cattle, grazed in the grassland around the camp. Soon it
would become a village, keeping the Trueman race alive.

Talsy finished
her stew and entered the shack to ask Sheera the questions that
burnt in her mind. The old seer sat beside a thin pallet, bathing
the brow of the man who lay on it. He was stripped to the waist,
his skin beaded with sweat above his tatty brown trousers. Dark
brown hair was plastered to his forehead, and crooked brows frowned
above a proud nose. His features had an air of quality and breeding
about them. Lean muscle ridged his broad-shouldered torso, and a
blood-stained dressing was strapped to his flank.

Sheera held a
finger to her lips, whispering, "He has a fever. The wound is
bad."

Talsy knelt
beside her. "Is he one of the chosen?"

The old woman
gestured for her to leave the shack and followed. Outside, she
settled down to stir the stew again.

"We're not sure
if he is. We found him a few days ago on our way here. He was with
a party of women and children, all of whom had been slaughtered,
but not by the Hashon Jahar. So we think he's chosen, although it
won't matter soon; he's dying."

"How do you
know the Black Riders didn’t kill them?"

Sheera shook
her head. "There were many dead brigands amongst the fallen." She
jerked her thumb at the shack behind her. "He was obviously a
fighter. He had a great sword with him. We brought him here and
I've been nursing him. But the wound grows worse, and a fever has
now set in. Doubtless he'll be dead soon."

Talsy
considered this, staring into the fire. "I have a friend who might
help him, if he is one of the chosen."

"Then bring
your friend, my dear, and let's find out. He hasn't woken since we
found him, so we can't question him. If he isn't chosen he must be
cast out."

Talsy nodded.
There was no reason for Chanter to avoid these Truemen, who would
not wish to harm him. In fact, she was curious about how they would
react to him. Rising, she thanked Sheera for the food and trotted
back along the rocky path. She arrived gasping at the rock where
Chanter perched, chewing a blade of grass and gazing into space. He
smiled when she approached and slid down to join her on the
ground.

"Why the
hurry?" he enquired as she strived to catch her breath.

She leant on
the rock and grinned. "They're chosen!" He raised a brow, and she
elaborated, "They don't hate Mujar. They were warned of the Black
Riders' coming and fled their villages. The seers were given a
vision or dream, and brought the good people to safety."

He nodded.
"Good, then you'll have company for the journey."

"What
journey?"

"We must
continue westwards for the gathering."

Talsy glanced
out to sea. "That's west, into the ocean."

"Yes. We must
cross it to reach the western continent."

"Why?"

"You'll find
out when we get there."

She shrugged it
off, resolving to get it out of him later somehow. "Come on."
Taking his hand, she pulled him towards the camp. "There's one who
needs your help." She paused. "You will help him, won't you? He
might be one of the chosen, and therefore worthy."

"Might be?"

"He's injured,
and can't speak, but they think he is."

Chanter allowed
her to tug him along, a hint of reluctance in his eyes. After the
treatment he had received from Truemen in the past, she did not
blame him for his mistrust, and glanced back often with a
reassuring smile. On the camp's outskirts, he stopped and studied
the people with wary eyes, reminding her that he had not willingly
entered the presence of men in his true form before. Since the
demise of his clan, he had been suspicious of Truemen, and rightly
so. She tugged him forward.

The reaction of
the chosen was mixed and surprising. Most stopped their work and
conversations to stare at Chanter, and silence descended. Several
youngsters ran and hid, peering from tents and shacks. One woman
fell to her knees and sobbed with wild abandon, hiding her face in
her skirt. Others moved to comfort her, and men who stood in
Chanter's path backed away. An old man came forward and bowed with
grave dignity, his wrinkled face wreathed in a gentle smile.

"Welcome,
Mujar," he murmured. "We are honoured."

Chanter glanced
at the old man, who lowered his eyes and retreated. Talsy led
Chanter to Sheera's shack, eager to introduce him to the old woman
with whom she had shared a strong rapport. Sheera looked up from
her work, and her bland expression changed to one of amazement and
joy. Dropping the spoon with which she stirred the stew, she rose
with a soft cry and strode towards Chanter, lifting her arms as if
to embrace him. The Mujar pulled his hand from Talsy's grip and
stepped back.

The air swelled
and filled with the soft beating of wings. Sheera stopped and
lowered her arms, and the manifestation of Ashmar died away. Her
eyes overflowed, and she brushed at the tears that coursed down her
cheeks. She cast Talsy a look of deep gratitude before turning her
gaze upon Chanter again. Stepping forward cautiously, she performed
a creaky curtsy.

"You are
welcome amongst us. I'm sorry I startled you, I mean you no harm."
She looked at Talsy. "You didn't mention that your friend was
Mujar, child. You should have."

Talsy glanced
around at the gawping crowd. "I wasn't expecting this
reaction."

"Then what were
you expecting, foolish girl? Many of these people have known Mujar
and lost them to the Pits, others have only heard legends." Sheera
pointed at the weeping woman. "She loved one and lost him. The old
man adopted one as his son, and lost him. The ones who are hiding
have only heard the legends. You walk in here as bold as brass,
towing a Mujar like a dog on a lead. What did you expect?"

Talsy shuffled
in embarrassment. "What Mujar have you known?"

Sheera blinked
away fresh tears. "I too, had one as a son. I hid him for many
years, for I lived alone in the woods. He was my pride and joy, so
beautiful and gentle. We had an understanding, not a bond. I gave
him all the comforts he wished, just for his company. When the
townsfolk found out about him, they came and took him away to a
Pit. They wounded him terribly with a spear, but he would not
fight, even though I begged him to."

"Why did you
run at Chanter?"

"I... He looks
so like him, I wanted to embrace him." She shook her head. "But it
was wrong, I know. He is as wild and untouchable as my friend was.
What bond do you have with him, that he allows you to touch
him?"

Talsy glanced
at Chanter. She had not realised that Mujar were so reluctant to be
handled. He had been unwilling to approach her at first, she
recalled, and he always kept his distance from Truemen. Only when
he had agreed to clan bond had he lain beside her. Her hand rose
towards the Mujar mark on her brow, but a glance at Chanter stopped
her, for his eyes held a warning.

"We have clan
bond," she said.

Sheera nodded
and stepped aside, gesturing to the pot and stools set around the
fire. "I offer comforts, Mujar. You are welcome at my table, humble
though it is. Are you hungry?"

Chanter
inclined his head and went over to settle on a stool. He glanced
around at the staring people, most of whom averted their eyes or
went back to their tasks, throwing surreptitious looks at him.

Sheera dished
up a bowl of stew and handed it to him, her eyes filled with
wonder. Chanter ignored her, and the others who still gaped at him
from their hiding places.

Talsy sat on a
stool next to him and asked, "How is the wounded man?"

The old woman
looked blank for a moment. "Oh, he's a little worse."

Talsy glanced
at Chanter. "Perhaps you should see to him now, before he gets
sicker."

The Mujar
paused, a spoonful of stew poised before his mouth.

Sheera
protested, "There's no need. He'll be all right."

Chanter
continued with his meal, ignoring Talsy's fretting. To distract
herself, she asked Sheera, "How long did you know your Mujar?"

"On and off for
four years. He came and went as he pleased, of course. Sometimes he
would be gone for days or months. Then he would reappear and stay
for several weeks. He always slept elsewhere, for some reason."

The old woman's
ignorance surprised Talsy, who opened her mouth to explain why
Mujar slept elsewhere. Chanter elbowed her, and she glanced at him.
He shook his head.

"You mustn't
speak of Mujar to outsiders."

"But -"

"No."

"He's right,"
Sheera declared. "If Kuran had wanted me to know, he would have
told me."

"Kuran?"
Talsy's brows rose. "But -"

"Talsy..."
Chanter shook his head, and she scowled at him, annoyed.

"What?"

The Mujar put
aside his plate and took her arm, tugging her from her stool. When
they were out of earshot of the Truemen, he stopped and turned to
her.

"Tell them
nothing of what you know. It's only you I told."

"Why? A Kuran
is a forest guardian, not a name."

He nodded. "The
Mujar she adopted did not give his real name. A Mujar's name gives
a small amount of power to anyone he tells it to, so most are
reluctant to give it. The secrets I told you are for you alone,
understand? You may tell them my name, because coming from you it
gives them no power over me, but nothing else."

"Why did you
tell me?"

"Because we had
clan bond. If they question you, tell them to ask me. They
won't."

She scowled.
"You don't trust them?"

"They're not
clan."

"They're
chosen!"

Chanter said,
"Perhaps not all are worthy. The seers did the choosing. They may
have made mistakes, or brought their sons and daughters who are not
worthy. Many, learning that it would save them, will have pretended
to be chosen. We'll have to be careful."