Broken World Book Three - A Land Without Law (3 page)

After the
Staff of Law had been broken, the dregs of motivation had carried
him onward. A remnant of the desire to protect those the gods had
deemed worthy of saving had led him to this valley. Now his course
was run and his responsibility fulfilled. The chosen were safe
here, insulated from the growing madness outside until their lives
were over, and he was content with that. He rubbed the stump of his
wrist. The gods' punishment comforted him, crippling him in any
form he took, a suitable chastisement for his mistake. Now he
wanted nothing but to live peacefully in this vale, protecting the
people in return for the comforts they gave him. A good bargain, an
unspoken clan bond. If the gods wished to save this world, they
would. Why did Talsy want to challenge them by trying to save it
herself? The idea was amusing, if only because it was so
impossible. Why did she persist with this futile hope?

Chanter sighed
again and sniffed the wind. A faint scent of roasting meat came to
him, and his stomach rumbled. He had not eaten for several days,
and comforts would be nice. When Talsy had first asked him to take
her to find the staff, he had silently refused. There was no point
in searching for it, and the creeping lethargy that had taken hold
of him since they had settled here rebelled at the idea of the
hardships involved. Now she had forced him from hiding and made the
request a Wish, which he could not deny.

Troublesome
Truemen, dragging him from his tranquillity on a fruitless quest
for a lost cause. Still, the bond that had been forged between them
when he had marked her was strong, and it would take years of
inactivity for it to weaken, though it could never be broken.
Facing dangers with her would strengthen it, a prospect he almost
dreaded, binding him closer to her strong-willed, hare-brained
ways. He had looked forward to the bond's dwindling that would set
him free again, now that hope was thwarted.

The world's
growing sickness came to him on the streams of silver Earthpower
that flowed through the ground. More and more, the Dolana was
becoming corrupted and warped, the lack of law marring its
perfection. In just six moons, its beauty had been tarnished, its
iciness no longer pure and fluent, but tainted with warm spots of
blackness. The Earthpower was the first to suffer, Crayash would be
the last, Ashmar and Shissar would carry the taint between them. He
sighed again and rubbed the stump. He rubbed it often, revelling in
the imperfection that no Mujar would normally keep. Across the
verdant valley, the sun sank behind the mountains' grey teeth,
staining them with shadows that crept down the slopes to swallow up
the tiny village nestled at their feet. Just like the darkness and
gloom of chaos swallowed up his bright and joyful world.

Chapter Two

Shan lay in
the grass, the sun warming his tanned back, and watched the grazing
herd. The munching of jaws and the occasional stomp as a horse
chased flies from its legs were music to his ears. For as long as
he could remember, the herd had been his people's life. Two nights
ago he had come into his sixteenth summer, and his acceptance feast
had been a joyful occasion. The herd stallion had welcomed him,
entering the headman's hut to snuffle Shan without any sign of
distrust. As soon as the stallion had left, his father had embraced
him and the Stone Ceremony had been performed. The strange stone
that was the tribe's most prized possession had been taken from its
soft bed of horse hide and pressed to Shan's forehead, then the
headman had recited the tale of its origins.

Many
generations ago, the headman had told them, a magnificent black
stallion with strange blue eyes had joined the herds of the
Aggapae, who were horse-traders and thieves, breeders of horseflesh
for sale into the cities' slavery. The Aggapae's avaricious
ancestors had tried to capture him, but even their best horsemen
had failed. The stallion had outwitted them at every turn, until,
in their anger, they had striven to drive him away. The stallion
had taken every horse they owned and vanished. Robbed of their
living, the tribe had fallen into poverty and hardship, and no
matter how many horses they had stolen, the stallion had returned
and taken them.

The headman's
voice had dropped to reverent tones, and even the smallest babies
had fallen silent as he went on. After the tribe had suffered for
months, the stallion had returned, and instead of trying to capture
him or reviling him for the doom he had brought, the headman had
begged forgiveness. No one had doubted by then that the stallion
was the god of horses, come to save them from slavery, and the
headman had begged him to bring back their steeds, swearing never
again to ill treat them. Further, he had sworn to tend them well,
care for their sicknesses, rid them of parasites and lead them to
good pastures. The stallion had struck a pebble at his feet with a
forefoot, and when the headman had looked at it, he had found that
it now bore a strange mark, a circle with a cross through it. As
the headman had picked it up, the stallion's words had come to
him.

"Treat them
well, and you will prosper, make them suffer, and so will you."

The headman
had sworn upon his life, and the blue-eyed stallion had left. The
next day the horses had returned, and the headman had found that he
could speak to the herd stallion. Others who had touched the stone
had been blessed with the same ability, and each had been chosen by
a horse with which he or she could converse. Soon every member of
the tribe had been bonded with a horse, and they had prospered.
Never again had they sold the horses, but the steeds had borne them
swiftly to the hunt and to battle. They had helped to till the
fields and haul their produce to the market, and the mares had
given their milk for the children. Since that time, every child of
sixteen touched the stone, then waited for their chosen steed to
make itself known to them.

Shan rolled
onto his back and chewed a blade of grass. He had his eye on a
frisky bay colt with a white blaze, which he fancied would be his.
For two days now, he had stalked the colt, but not once had the
animal looked at him. Glancing around, he spotted the black colt
staring at him again. Shan cursed softly. The two-year-old was the
current joke amongst the tribe. He had been born late one year to
the herd's oldest mare, the black lead mare Shisab. Shisab was no
beauty, being heavily built and slow, but her chosen, a fat
farmer's wife, loved her anyway. The colt had been her last foal,
since then she had turned barren and taken up guard duty.

Shan glared at
the colt. Although big, the two-year-old was coarse, his head broad
and whiskery, his legs thick and feathered, signs of slowness.
Every youngster longed for a horse that was beautiful and swift,
like the bay colt. No one wanted the ugly black colt, least of all
Shan. He was the headman's son, and deserved a better steed. He
jumped up and shouted, waving his arms to try to drive the colt
away. The animal snorted and flung up his head, and Shan bent to
pick up a stone.

"Hey!"

Shan swung
around. A line of wood gatherers wound through the pasture, heading
for the clan's tent village. Their leader, a warrior named Brin,
strode towards him. Shan dropped the stone before Brin reached him,
trying to look innocent. The warrior stopped before him and dumped
the wood he carried.

"What did you
think you were doing?"

Shan glanced
back at the colt. "I just wanted to chase him away. I wasn't going
to hit him, honest."

Brin slapped
Shan, making him stagger. He blinked away the tears that stung his
eyes as he straightened to face the warrior.

"If you ever
throw stones at the horses, you'll be cast out, stupid boy!" Brin
glowered at him, his hard grey eyes unwavering in his strong,
square-jawed face. The tattoos of his rank flowed down his cheeks
in long lines, and the circle and cross of the Stone mark adorned
his brow. "Why would you want to chase him away?"

Shan shuffled
his feet in embarrassment. "I want the bay colt to choose me, and
that one keeps getting in the way!"

Brin's eyes
swept the herd. "Bashar's foal? A fine animal. But what you want is
irrelevant. The horses do the choosing, not us. Did you ever think
that the black colt might choose you?"

Shan scowled.
"No! I don't want him!"

Brin cursed
and turned as his horse, Task, nudged him in the back. The wood
gatherers were far down the road to the village, and Task grew
impatient to be rid of the load he carried for Brin. It was no more
than he wished, but a heavy burden just the same. Brin stroked the
horse's nose and whispered soft words that only his steed could
understand. He turned back to Shan with a frown.

"Task wants to
go. You, follow me, I have words to say still."

Shan trudged
beside the warrior as he gathered up his wood and walked on towards
the village, Task following.

"Listen to me,
boy," Brin said. "If the black colt chooses you, be grateful for
it. He may not be a beauty, but he's big and strong."

"Slow and
ugly!" Shan cried, "I'll be the laughing stock!"

"Would you
rather be unchosen? Horseless, like Jorn? If you think you're too
good for the black colt, think again."

Shan thought
about Jorn. At his celebration, the herd stallion had snorted and
laid back his ears, but had not cast him out. Jorn had never been
chosen, and remained horseless, relegated to being a farmer and
unmarried because of his poverty. By contrast, Shan's father, the
current headman, had been chosen twice by the same horse, the only
time that had ever happened. At sixteen, Jesher had been chosen by
a fine grey colt called Nort. On the journey to the winter grounds,
Nort had slipped in a river and broken his leg. Jesher had mourned
and nursed him for a day and a night, then slit his throat to end
his suffering. Three years later, a fine grey two-year-old colt had
chosen Jesher, and given his name as Nort.

Since horses
did not live as long as men, a person would be chosen three or four
times in his or her lifetime, but the first steed was always the
most important. Shan's father was now thirty-five, and Nort
seventeen, almost too old to retain his status as herd stallion.
Soon a younger horse from the bachelor herd would challenge, and
when Nort lost his standing as herd stallion, Jesher would also
cease to be headman. Already many horses had fought Nort and lost,
and the ageing herd stallion had the scars to prove it. He would
leave behind a strong legacy, however, for he had sired hundreds of
foals in his eight-year stint as herd stallion. Most of his
challengers were his sons, since the majority of those sired by the
previous herd stallion, which was also Nort's sire, were past their
prime.

While horses
from the bachelor herd would make forays into the mares during the
breeding season, the mares would have none of them, so every foal
born was Nort's get. For three months in spring, Nort had a full
time job covering mares and chasing off marauding horses, at the
end of which he was thin and exhausted. The black colt was Nort's
get, but bore no resemblance to his sire.

Shan tuned his
ears to Brin's advice again.

"If the black
colt wants you, you have no choice, boy. You're his,
understand?"

Shan cast a
longing glance back at the herd, where the bay colt frisked with a
filly, and the ugly black colt grazed stolidly, swatting flies.

"I don't want
him," the boy said stubbornly.

"Then you'll
be horseless. You'll ride behind your mother on Mishal to the
winter grounds until you're too big, then you'll walk. You'll never
be a hunter or a warrior. You'll be a farmer, like Jorn, and like
him, poor and wifeless. Is that what you want?"

"No, I want
the bay colt."

They reached
the woodpile and Brin shed his load, turning to untie the wood from
Task's back. Task was large and well built, a handsome blue roan
with four white socks. His coat gleamed with the brushing that Brin
lavished upon him, and his mane and tail flew like silk.

"When I was
your age," Brin said, "I had my eye on a nice chestnut. I followed
him around the pasture for weeks, but he never looked at me. Then
one day Task walked up and chose me, and I have never regretted it.
The chestnut is now Daron, Steff's mount, and they're well suited.
The horses know, Shan. Don't try to fight their choice."

Shan grunted
and kicked the woodpile. Brin finished unloading Task, and the
horse turned and galloped down to the pasture to join the bachelor
herd. Brin gazed after him fondly.

"Doesn't he
want to be brushed?" Shan enquired.

"He'll come
back when he does. First he wants to roll and get really
dirty."

Brin clasped
Shan's shoulder as they walked into the village. Women tended
bubbling pots or young children, men honed their weapons, cured
skins or tended their horses. Friends called greetings as they
passed their tents, and a woman milked her mare while the foal
waited its turn at the udder. The women had no tattoos other than
the Stone mark, and only Jorn lacked that. The Stone mark was given
when a boy or girl was chosen, tattooed in black on their brows.
The tattoos on men's cheeks were added when they chose their
profession. Warriors had red tattoos, hunters had blue and farmers
green. For the most part, colts chose boys and fillies chose girls,
with one exception, the warrior woman Mita. A colt had chosen her,
and from there her path was set. Instead of becoming a wife and
mother, she had become a fine warrior.

Brin guided
Shan to the headman's tent, where his father, Jesher, looked up in
surprise. In terse words, Brin explained Shan's crime, then left
Jesher to chastise his son.