I shook my head as a man trapped in a dream. After helping P’dáronï
scramble up onto Hoyibarak’s back, I pulled myself aboard Thurmagor with the help of his lowered left horn, which was the thickness of my thigh at its base. He was scarcely a handspan shorter than his father, and even thicker through the shoulders, if that were possible. He looked as though he could gore his way through mountains.
We ride!
And the jerlak rumbled forward to join the dense press of their herd.
We
were as a Hassutl and Hassutla being borne forth in their utmost majesty, I thought, only this was a carriage finer and more astonishing than anything I could have imagined. We floated in a sea of jerlak horns, heads and backs. The huffing and snorting of the jerlak created a rolling fog-bank above the herd, the sheer number of animals fogging up the air as though they sought to draw a blanket of silence and secrecy about us. P’dáronï and I were awed into a silence of our own. And always there was an underlying reverberation of myriad hooves upon sod and stone, and sneezes and snorts, and at one point, I fancied it was Thurbarak who bellowed and the entire herd responded in a resounding roar that echoed off the distant hills.
I own we rode this way for
six or seven makh, until I thought I began to recognise the smudge of hills cresting the far horizon. The fog had lifted as Suthauk attended us with a fine, humid early afternoon blaze. From my perch above the herd I thought I might estimate their number, but I gave up swiftly. A hundred thousand head? Leagues of jerlak rolling across the land like the restless waves of a dark ocean? And I was unafraid!
By what magic had they crossed the Straits of Nxthu?
Was this every jerlak in Mata’s creation come to give us aid?
The jerlak did not pause to crop a single blade of grass or strip a tasty bush bare. There was a firm sense of purpose about them, a pressing forward with
fortitude and urgency. As I mulled this in my mind I spotted the white head of Thurbarak approaching through the massed bodies, which melted and slid around him as though he were a white fish slipping through an ocean of brown and black.
Eldoran lies beyond the hills.
Another five makh at this speed. The herd is slowing. We are tired, having followed you all these leagues from the waters of the young Nugar.
I half-turned to P’dáronï to repeat this, but she pulsed that she
had understood.
“Great One, why did you help us?”
Is it not enough that it is? We follow Mata. The black robe is not content with dominion over her own kind. Already her Warlocks test our strength and hunt the jerlak for sport. And after that? She would play with the very Gods. There is an Eldrik army mustering outside the city. You will whisper by them as the mist of the morning. We will teach them the lessons of hoof and horn.
Following P’dáronï’s thought, I said, “The Banishment–”
Is prepared for today, for the makh before sunset. You must run ahead, man who Mata granted a tygar’s legs and a wolf’s stamina.
At this,
Hoyibarak and Thurmagor slowed to let us dismount. I stretched my aching legs, thinking that I should have known the trader was lying. Or had Jyla moved up the schedule, anticipating our arrival? We would discover the truth soon enough.
Lifting P’dáronï upon my back, I said, “Great One
… words fail me.”
Call us as you
have need. Our horns are sharp and many.
And I sprang away across the long meadow muddied by thousands of hooves; for the second time in my life, through a path that opened between the great jerlak for us
. They did not bow as to their lord Thurbarak, but instead, as we broke free of the foremost animals, raised such a bellowing and lowing chorus that I felt fairly blasted by hurricane winds from behind.
Now
, the run to Eldoran. The last leg of our enormous journey.
Not for nothing did the ulules call me The Running Man
, I thought, gritting my teeth. I must prove them right.
Lucanism and Ulim-worship, I own they are one.
Faliyan
of Eldoran,
Legacy
As we marched rapidly through the streets of Eldoran I was struck by a sense of desolation, as though the city had been stripped of its soul. The perfection was still staggering. Not a leaf or grass blade or bush was out of place. Every house shone as brightly as a newly minted Lortiti Real. Here a fanciful snail-shell, there a structure buried in flowering vines, here a house curved delicately about the enormous trunk of a shenbik tree, which bears three different types of fruit, each in its season. The paths between the meandering gardens had not only been brushed, but polished until the paving stones gleamed. It was easy to imagine no foot had ever touched them. The harmonious fusion of the whole pleased the eye. But where were the voices of children playing, hounds baying, and matrons calling to their friends across the street? Where were the enticing smells of food cooking and dark young beauties strolling along beneath pretty parasols in search of a young buck’s head to turn, as I recalled? Surely Jyla could not have forced every citizen of Eldoran to attend the ceremony of Banishment? The square was physically too small …
“They left,” P’dáronï said, answering my silent question. “And Jyla fetched back those she wanted
and pressed them into her service, or Banished them. The Dark Isle must be filled to bursting by now.”
And Jyla still kept up this travesty of perfection?
We saw few people. They were close-hooded and bowed of head despite the late afternoon’s warmth. They cast us furtive, distrusting glances as they hurried about their business.
I drew P’dáronï aside to a
wooden bench situated in a vine-wreathed arbour and said to her, “I’ve worked out what to do with your eyes. Let me swiftly set it in motion before we continue to the square.”
“Hurry,” she replied, through ashen lips.
“I couldn’t work out how to restore the nerve signals,” I explained, directing my power into her eyes. “Therefore I propose we bypass the physical optic nerve and translate the signals directly to their receptor sites–essentially, building a magical nerve to perform the same function. The only drawback I anticipate is that a surge of
lillia
could knock out your sight. You’ll have to see just how sensitive the connection is when your body has finished growing this capability. The change is small but fundamental.”
“I can grow
… Mata’s name, Arlak-
nevsê
–this frightens me.”
“
Me too, dearest one. You’re Armittalese and can do much I fear the Eldrik and Umarik cannot.”
P’dáronï shivered as I concentrated deeply, but only for a fraction of a makh. The plan in my mind was clear. There was little to do but set events in motion.
Her body must do the rest. She would need to make the connections; her mind would need to learn to interpret the signals, should the mechanism work as I envisaged.
Pensively, I removed the bandages over her eyes. “I
hope you won’t need these ever again.”
I drew her to her feet and clasped
her slender body close. I nuzzled my cheek against her hair and then raised her chin with a fingertip to kiss her deeply. “P’dáronï-
nevsêsh
, if the worst should happen today … we must not allow Jyla the power of the Wurm. That is paramount.”
She
held me fiercely. “Forever and beyond, Arlak-
nevsê!
”
My body moved forward, but it felt as though my heart were strapped to a cart straining in the opposite direction. I had anna before given up thoughts of fleeing this fate. Jyla would find me. She always did, motivated by her greed or lust for power or whatever it was that drove a person like her to the edge of madness. And when she found me, she would spoil whatever happiness I enjoyed. I knew I might die. I might lose P’dáronï.
Jyla–or P’dáronï or Eliyan or Amal–might kill me. Even my desire for revenge held little sweetness or savour. Jyla must be stopped. Her madness should flourish no longer. I owed it to Janos, to Rubiny, to Orik, to my children, and to the entire Eldrik race.
These thoughts kept my feet moving.
Down into the bowl of the city we walked, perhaps the lowest part of Eldoran save the docks and the dungeons of the Pentacle. Even from afar we heard the chanting of the crowd:
‘Ahammae mor morbinduu,’
they cried. Separation is the penalty. Over and over. But we dared not run. There were soldiers guarding the square, one ring to the outside and a second, much thicker ring around the platform. Between the two rings of soldiers a press of thousands had gathered to watch the spectacle.
Thankfully, several other Eldrik arrived even as we did, and so we were allowed through the first ring of soldiers and into the back rank of this multitude.
Carefully we mingled with the blank-faced watchers and slowly worked our way forward.
Above the heads of the chanting, swaying crowd, I
could see the white pergola–a simple structure, truly told, akin to a trellised archway that might have graced a garden or a pretty building. But wind hissed through its yawning centre. A capricious breeze ruffled our hair too, a strange tugging as though the air sought with animate intent to draw us into the portal. There the air appeared caved in by some monstrous force beyond my ken. The edges of it were as purple as bruised flesh, a roughly oval space hanging between the pristine pillars of the pergola, and through this tear in the fabric of the world I beheld the low, hunchbacked silhouette of Birial, the Dark Isle, and the gloom of the eternal storm that assaulted it night and day.
I shuddered violently. The breath of Nethe incarnate! The sight of dark seas heaving in the place beyond!
I heard the screams of a man being dragged up the platform steps even now. Ay, it took me right back to the man I had once seen Banished, Pedyk.
P’dáronï asked.
I kept my thoughts tightly focussed, as P’dáronï was doing.
Our thoughts felt as thin as a spider’s gossamer silk stretched between us.
She shook her head slightly.
I could not see the base of the platform, but I noticed immediately that the area to the fore of the steps was packed with the crimson robes of Inquisitors, while upon the stage itself at least fifty Sorcerers stood in close array–overseeing proceedings, I supposed. Robed in their distinctive sherimol cloaks which were so black they became nought but patches of nothingness, the tight phalanx appeared as disembodied heads floating above the populace.
Jyla
sat on an upright wooden chair on a platform of her own. That was new. There was no-one within ten paces of her. Dread queen of all she surveyed, I thought, perched upon her throne of blood, lust, and betrayal. As though she felt the touch of my eyes, her head turned to scan the crowd. I Dissembled frantically, knowing she could not possibly recognise me at this distance across the square, for I was robed as any of a hundred ordinary citizens of Eldoran nearby. Or could she? Jyla turned back to the spectacle. The crowd’s roar swelled as a trio of soldiers pitched the man into the portal. The Sorceress smiled.
CAN-SEE!>
I nearly leaped out of my cloak.
P’dáronï
gazed at her fingers. Wriggling them slightly, turning her hand over to examine the whorls on her fingertips. That tiny action was so poignant I wanted to scream in exultation, or weep, or dance a rowdy Roymerian round-dance! There was a roaring in my ears; I felt as though I were swaying and spread my stance needlessly. Now her lowered lashes trembled. Her eyes rose shyly to behold my face. I could not withhold a gasp. Her irises were violet; the vibrant, energy-charged violet of pure
lillia!
Often in Hakooi odes eyes are said to sparkle. Her eyes were ablaze.
This I had not anticipated. Gone were the ruined, staring white orbs that I had known and even loved. In their place was … heaven? Glorious restoration? The fires of primordial life? Only Mata Herself could have imagined such an astonishing effect.
P’dáronï’s
pupils worked hard, unused to focussing, and I could only imagine the torrent of sensations and impressions rushing into her mind, as though she were standing beneath a huge waterfall. I wiped wetness off my cheeks. My throat was too full to allow a word.
I own she must have read my response in my eyes. P’dáronï’s lips curved upward.
Suddenly, there was
dead silence in the square. P’dáronï and I startled as one.
Jyla
rose to her feet. Garbed in a long-sleeved robe of her favourite snow-white samite–the Umarite colour of death–she seemed too delicate a flower to command such presence. Her dark hair framed a face of unearthly beauty, the better to mask the evil burning within. Right across the square, we quailed beneath the crushing dominance of her presence. There was physical power in her gaze, coupled with a mental touch like the honed steel of a blade.
“Good citizens of Eldoran!” she
said. Apparently needing no amplification, her voice carried to every corner of the square. It stuck me that I was hearing her through my mind as well as my ears. “It gives me great pleasure to bring before our judgement Eliyan the Sorcerer, who used to be First Councillor of the Eldrik! His crimes are well known and I shall not spell them out today. In Banishing this snake of a man, we take a great step forward in cleansing and purifying the
gyael-irfa!
We honour our ancestor Lucan, though whose incomparable vision all Eldrik will be sanctified and glorified in the
hyngreal
of Mata-worship. May our sacrifice today be acceptable to you, o great Mata, whom we serve!”
Not for Eliyan any protest. Although he was much thinner than I recalled, and certainly greyer of hair, his dignity was as unassailable as ever.
A dozen Inquisitors flanked him. Each held the end of a magical lasso called a yoke of binding, which were looped five around his neck, five around his waist, and one about each of his wrists. Without hurry or apparent fear, the Sorcerer moved steadily to the platform. The magical shield rippled as he stepped within.
P’dáronï
gripped my hand so hard the blood had stopped in my fingers. I let her.
This was our plan. This part we knew would work. The rest? P’dáronï would have to accomplish that on her own. Mata preserve her!
Upon the platform, a crimson robe called Soymal introduced himself as Head of the Inquisitors. He briefly read the charge
s, and then turned to Eliyan. In tones that brought to my mind Ulim’s Hunt riding abroad on a depthless Alldark night, he demanded, “Will you confess your crimes before you are sentenced to the Banishment?”
The crowd, who had been hissing
ahammae mor morbinduu
in perfect cadence, now stopped in perfect accord too, as though they were one mind and one voice. Indeed they were. Thralls of Jyla. Torflies snared in the spider’s web. It made my skin crawl to behold them. Unity, perfection, and utter enslavement–the definitive end of Lucanism.
Eliyan turned to face the crowd. Raising his voice, he said, “You
people have no ears to hear. You have no minds with which to process my words. So I will say but this: the woman Jyla is not Mata. Cast yourselves upon Mata’s mercy today and be saved. If not, then may you be doomed to the pits of Nethe, along with all that is foul and unworthy in this world. Woe to you, fair Eldoran! May Mata have mercy upon us all.”
When it was evident Eliyan would say no more, the Inquisitor Soymal stepped forward. “Eliyan of Eldoran, you
once held great responsibility among our people. May Mata show your eternal soul no mercy, in recompense for those you led astray. Eliyan, you have been judged and found guilty. Will you accept this punishment and be Banished?”
“I will never submit to evil while I
yet draw breath.”
The world flickered.
My hand snaked across the handspan separating me from the first Warlock. The Hassutl of Herliki’s own dagger eased between the man’s ribs and he fell without a sound. I danced sideways. The second Warlock was only just turning toward me. I lunged outward and upward, stabbing the knife through the base of his jaw, slicing through his tongue near the back of the throat, and driving the blade into his brain. I felt P’dáronï leave my side as though she were a quarrel loosed from a bow. She needed only that shiver in the shield caused by two deaths to slip inside, before the Warlocks reacted. They sealed the gap instinctively.
My job was to create mayhem. But we had underestimated
the extent of Jyla’s control over the Sorcerers, Warlocks, soldiers, and all the people. They neither shouted, nor panicked, nor did ought but look slightly aggrieved as I slew the two Warlocks. I crouched ready for their counterattack, which never came. Only a mental command: