Broken World Book Three - A Land Without Law (25 page)

A column of
Black Riders rode through the valley, four abreast, their armour
glinting in the moonlight and their tireless steeds' silken hides
gleaming like satin. As before, the Riders made no sound other than
the thunder of hooves, but these were not Hashon Jahar at all.
Their stone faces no longer stared blindly ahead with
expressionless eyes, but were twisted into expressions of scowling
hatred and snarling anger. Their eyes glowed with a sullen yellow
light, and their horses also possessed the glowing orbs, but, in
addition, they had long fangs protruding from their lips. The sight
of them made her stomach clench. Their lances bore pennants with
strange sigils on them, and their formation's perfection was gone,
their lines uneven and ragged. The last of them thundered past and
vanished up the valley, leaving the fading rumble of their hooves
and a pall of dust that hung in their wake.

Talsy turned
and pressed her back to the rock, and the others turned away with
expressions of horror and despair. Kieran slumped, looking stunned.
Chanter stood up and gazed after the Riders, then glanced down at
Talsy.

She looked up
at him and loosened her tongue in a dry mouth. "What are they?"

"Good
question," he mused, squatting down and running his eyes over the
chosen. "They were Hashon Jahar, but they aren't any more. They are
another product of the chaos, a mingling of life and death. The
Hashon Jahar were truly dead, a creation of the Goddess Marrana.
They carried their victim's souls in them to be tortured by their
people's deaths. This was the punishment of the unchosen, decreed
and carried out by the gods.

"The Hashon
Jahar were animated by the power of Death, and had no vestige of
Life, breaking no laws. From what I've seen tonight, I would say
that the souls that were trapped within those Black Riders have
mingled with them and animated them. Previously the souls were
merely carried by the Hashon Jahar, but now I think they rule them.
That yellow light you see in the Riders' eyes is the souls' power."
He paused to study their shocked faces. "It would take many souls
to animate a Rider and its steed. Their power is weak, and can only
be strengthened by one thing."

Kieran
frowned. "What's that?"

"The gathering
of more souls to serve the stone body."

"But they
always were killing machines. What's the difference?" Talsy
asked.

"Now they're
worse. They'll kill whatever they can find, and trap its soul. They
killed only Truemen before, and collected the souls. Now they'll
slaughter beasts as well, and, since they're now endowed with the
characters of the souls they carry, they may strike foul bargains
with powerful rulers in exchange for the sacrifice of innocents to
feed them."

Talsy glanced
around, surprised that Chanter had not taken her and Kieran aside
as he usually did, but had told all of them. The Aggapae stared at
the Mujar with sick eyes, their gentle natures clearly outraged by
such evil in their land.

Kieran
muttered, "So what can we do about them?"

"Stay as far
away from them as possible," Chanter stated. "Especially me."

Talsy looked
up at this last statement, but Kieran spoke first. "Is there any
way to fight them?"

"How can you
fight that which is neither dead nor alive? As Hashon Jahar, they
could not be defeated, for they could not be killed. Now, as then,
they're immortal, but every battle strengthens them as they gather
more souls and drink blood."

"Why
especially you?" Talsy demanded.

Chanter looked
at her, and his eyes flicked to the Aggapae, telling her that this
was something to do with his being Mujar. She thought he would not
answer, then he looked down.

"I am Life in
its purest form." He raised glowing eyes. "The reason Mujar cannot
be killed is because the Life within us is too strong. We are the
children of Antanar, God of Life, and endowed with an endless font
that cannot be withdrawn until our time is up, when Antanar himself
snuffs out our existence. All other creatures fall under the sway
of Life and Death. Antanar creates them, Marrana snuffs them out."
He lowered his gaze again. "If a Mujar fell into the hands of those
things, they would leech that Life from him and become so powerful
they might even cross the threshold and birth themselves. Drinking
Mujar blood... is forbidden."

Kieran stared
at Chanter, his expression wondering. "Mujar, the accursed undying.
You're not cursed at all, are you? You're blessed."

The Mujar
nodded. "Those things, that were once Hashon Jahar, are now the
accursed undead. We must be even more careful from now on."

Talsy sagged,
dismayed by the increasing numbers of monstrosities they faced.
First the chaos beasts, now undead Black Riders. "We should call
them Ghost Riders," she suggested wearily.

Chanter
translated, "Torrak Jahar."

Kieran stared
after the Riders, frowning. "What worries me is that they're going
in the same direction as we are, towards that city. What if they're
also going there?"

"Then we'll
find out when we arrive in a couple more days." Talsy rose to her
feet and started back towards the camp. "It's no good worrying
about that bridge until we come to it."

Two days
later, they stopped at the forest's edge to gaze across a vast
expanse of cultivated land surrounding a city that spanned several
hills, undulating over them like an ugly, mottled scab. The city
huddled behind a deformed wall of slumped, stretched and bloated
stone that crept up and down the hills like a putrefying snake.
Although inept earth wizards had clearly built it, the wall was
tall and strong, an excellent defence against chaos beasts. The
remnants of a tar web protruded from under the wall here and there,
mostly buried by the expanding city and its new defences. Strange
half human, half animal creatures tended the fields, and a stream
of wagons trundled in and out of the gates, guarded by armed men.
There was no sign of the Torrak Jahar, which meant that they had
either passed by or entered the city. Talsy hoped it was the
former, she had no wish to meet the unread Riders. She slid from
Chanter's back, and he transformed into a man in an icy hush.

"Well, what do
we do now?" she asked.

"The wind saw
it fall there, in that city," the Mujar stated.

"Then someone
will have to go and look for it."

"I'll go,"
Kieran offered.

"Alone?" Talsy
raised her brows. "How brave of you, My Prince."

"Bravery has
nothing to do with it," he said. "I'm the most obvious choice."

"Because
you're expendable?"

"In a way." He
gazed at the distant city. "The Aggapae would be lost in there, and
their horses wouldn't like it. Chanter can't go near the place, and
you're just a girl. I'm the only one who's qualified, and I have
the sword."

"You've got it
all figured out, haven't you? Have you forgotten that this mere
girl can summon the wind and saved your rotten hide when we were
captured before?"

"Stop thinking
only of yourself. If you get into trouble in there Chanter will be
forced to come to your aid, and if they capture him..."

"He's right,"
Chanter murmured before she could retort. "He's a warrior, and he
has the Starsword. The last piece was mine to find, this one is
his. Perhaps the next will be yours."

She glared at
Kieran. "So how do you plan to find it?"

He shrugged.
"Ask around. If a ruddy great piece of stone came hurtling out of
the sky and landed somewhere inside those walls, someone must have
seen it and know where it is."

Talsy swung
away, miffed. "Well, don't take all year to find it then." She
walked back into the trees and flopped down on the leaves, drew up
her knees and hugged them.

Chanter nodded
at the warrior. "Be careful."

"I'll be fine,
but I'll need some money."

Talsy tossed
the pouch to him, and he turned to Brin. "Will my horse carry me to
the city?"

The Aggapae
communed with his horse, which whickered the enquiry to the
piebald. Kieran's mount snorted and stepped forward.

"As far as the
city gates," Brin explained.

"That's
fine."

Kieran
mounted, and the Aggapae wished him well before he rode towards the
distant city. Talsy glared after him, confused by the depth of her
concern and resentful of it. Shrugging it off as purely for the
sake of finding the staff, she tried to put it out of her mind.

Chanter turned
to her. "We should find some shelter in which to live until he
returns. Somewhere I can protect you if need be. A cave
perhaps."

Talsy flung a
last look at the Prince's retreating figure and rose to follow the
Mujar into the forest, trotting to catch up and slip her hand into
his. The Aggapae followed on foot, their horses behind them. The
Mujar led them to some rocky hills, where they found a spacious
cave hidden amongst the trees. The Aggapae set to work clearing out
the debris and fallen leaves while Talsy sat outside with
Chanter.

The piebald
returned at dusk, and Brin assured them that the Prince had entered
the city safely.

Kieran
wandered through the narrow, cobbled streets of a metropolis he
likened to a nightmare. Tall, whitewashed buildings with steep,
tiled roofs lined the streets, their walls reinforced with thick
black beams. The division between rich and poor was bizarre. The
city bustled with people who were either wealthy and dressed in
fine clothes or ragged beggars squatting in the gutters. Crossbreed
slaves, it seemed, now did all the menial jobs. He had passed them
in the fields outside, manhorses and mangoats that tended their
master's land, pulling ploughs and hoeing weeds. The piebald had
snorted and rolled his eyes at them, laying back his ears in patent
unease, and Kieran understood his aversion. The creatures were
weird, almost monstrous.

Within the
city, manbulls carried litters and swept the streets, manhorses
pulled carts. Many more half breeds marched past in chains, on
their way to be sold or put to some unwholesome use. Most bore the
scars of ill use or abuse and carried badges of slavery in the form
of brands and tattoos. Rich Truemen thronged the pavements and
shops, overdressed women drove past in carriages or reclined on
litters. There was no market place in the central square, all the
transactions took place in plush shops. The pathetic wretches in
the gutters held out hopeful hands to passers-by, which the
well-dressed shoppers mostly ignored.

Kieran
wandered through the streets, wondering who to ask and where to
start his search. People hurried past without glancing at him,
their manner purposeful. Only the beggars seemed to have time on
their hands, but their only concern was extracting money from the
rich to buy a little food. As dusk crept through the city, great
horns blew at the gates, and they swung shut with a distant boom.
Resolving to begin his search tomorrow, he looked for an inn. He
chose a less affluent one, but the amount the proprietor demanded
was more than half the silver in his purse, and he left again,
disgruntled.

As the sky
darkened, the beggars drifted in one direction, a look of resigned
purpose on their faces, and he followed them. They led him through
winding back streets to a building that might once have been a
granary or warehouse. The scrawny men entered an open door that
gave a view of a welcoming, well-lighted interior. He followed them
into a sizeable room that numerous lamps lighted, much of its floor
covered with thin sleeping mats on which many beggars sat. At one
end, close to the door through which he had entered, several people
tended two massive pots, and a table before them held piles of
bowls and spoons. The beggars went to the table and picked up a
bowl and spoon, then joined a queue that led to the pots, where two
people ladled rice and thin soup into their bowls. After receiving
their food, the beggars passed a woman holding a wooden plate, and
into this they dropped a few coppers that they had earned
begging.

Kieran stood
inside the door and studied this strange scenario, wondering if he
should join the queue or leave. He was not a beggar, but neither
could he afford to stay at an inn. While he pondered, the woman who
held the plate noticed him and passed the plate to a young boy,
then came over to him. Her long dark hair hung down her back in a
plait, and her dark-eyed face held the wisdom and patience of one
who was no longer a girl. She stopped before him and regarded him
with soft brown eyes.

"Welcome,
stranger. Can we help you?"

Kieran
shifted, his leather armour and polished silver studs making him
uncomfortable in the presence of one who clearly had a gentle
nature. He pulled his short black cloak closer. "I'm seeking
lodgings for the night, but the inns in this town are too pricy for
me."

Her eyes
measured him. "Nor do you belong here. You're not a beggar."

"I'll pay for
food and a bed, though not as much as the inns are asking."

She glanced
back at the people busy at the pots. "Perhaps we can help you,
then. We provide shelter and food for the poor homeless people made
jobless by the foul practise of crossbreed slavery. A paying client
would help us in our efforts, and whatever you can afford will do
nicely."

Kieran stared
at her. "You're chosen."

"Pardon?"

The Prince
shook his head. "Nothing. Here." He held out two silver coins.
"This is what I would have been prepared to pay for a night at an
inn."

She took the
money. "Thank you. Come and meet my family."

Kieran
followed her to the people who tended the pots. A plump,
florid-faced man straightened with a suspicious glance at him, and
his slim wife paused in her soup ladling. The boy holding the plate
gaped at Kieran, his eyes drawn to the sword that hung against the
Prince's leg. Two older boys turned from handing out blankets to
stare at the newcomer, and the beggars helped themselves,
uninterested in the Prince. The young woman stopped before the
florid-faced man.