Empire of the Saviours (Chronicles of/Cosmic Warlord 1) (49 page)

But there was no reply, just silence, as silence had greeted all the projections she’d attempted in the last few days. The Saint’s wide nostrils quivered as he scented the air to locate her. He moved towards her, hearing her shift to press against the back wall of the cell. Then he suddenly seemed able to see her. He came closer, his shadow casting her into darkness, and then his face was an inch from hers, smelling her fear and dribbling in anticipation. His hot breath smelt of death, the bloody pits where his eyes had been oozed pus and bloody tears. Surely this creature of nightmare had never been human? There was a greenish tint to his skin that spoke of poisons so lethal they could have no place in the life and nature of this world. Her flesh crawled at the sight and closeness of him. Her lungs spasmed in terror. Her mind teetered.

‘Are they treating you well?’ the ghastly thing whispered.

She wanted to be sick. She couldn’t nod because she couldn’t stand the idea of coming into contact with his loathsome flesh. He was anathema to everything she knew and believed in. Her throat was constricted. She couldn’t speak.

‘Ahh, but you are afraid. I do not mean to scare you.’ He grinned, tilting his sightless head and taking a step back. ‘I apologise. I imagine I am not looking my best. This has all been quite … unfortunate, as difficult for me as for you and your husband. I wish it had not come to this, truly. You feel the same, yes, Maria?’

She finally managed to prise her head away from the wall and nod weakly. The word escaped her: ‘Yes.’

He went down on his haunches, his head all but level with hers now. There was an air of sadness about him. No, she would not feel sorry for this insane monster, not after the things he had done. But his magic was influencing her, appealing to her maternal and nurturing capabilities. She tried to shore up her mental defences, but she’d drained herself in the last few days and had hardly slept. To her unending shame, although rationally she knew none of the fault was hers, she’d been Drawn by him when she was young. He was inside her and could not be denied if he became violent and determined.

‘I have not come seeking your forgiveness, woman, understand that. I am a holy Saint, remember. You owe me your faith and allegiance. You are in debt to me for your life.’

‘Yes, holy one. You have my faith and allegiance. I recognise my debt,’ she replied glibly, trying to convince herself she was deceiving him.

‘It is not your place to forgive me, but I will admit to you that circumstances have forced me to do things of which I am not entirely proud.’

‘I am sure they were unavoidable, holy one.’
You have a tongue so forked I cannot believe it does not end up in knots
.

‘Indeed, they were. I wish to restore your family to you, Maria.’

No, you devil, do not say so. Anything but that! I could resist any temptation or torture more easily than that
. ‘I pray that it can be so.’

‘I hold no grudge against Jillan, you must understand. Like all of us, he has suffered circumstances that, as with me, forced him to do things of which he may not have been proud, but things that were unavoidable nonetheless. How can I condemn him while behaving in the same way? I cannot, Maria. Like me, Jillan has a special gift, a gift that is often a responsibility, a gift that is often a burden and a gift that is sometimes … is sometimes a curse. Do you understand what I say, Maria?’

‘Yes.’
I do not want to!

‘Jillan and I are the same in that respect.’

She shook her head, eyes wide and blurring.

‘I know your faith fears to elevate your son to my position, but I say it is true and therefore your faith must accept it. He will be a Saint one day, a protector of the People, holy within the Empire, a divine representative of the blessed Saviours themselves.’

Never! He is nothing like you. He will never become the monster you are. The killing was an accident. He was defending himself
.

‘And I will give him back to you. I am having him brought to this place, Maria. In return, though, I must ask you to honour your debt to me. Will you pay your debt to me?’

No! Tell him no. Do not think of Jillan returned to you. It is a lie. Do not think of holding him as a mother and keeping him safe from all harm. My sweet son, I love you!
‘I will pay the debt,’ she choked.

‘You understand that this will become a binding aegis, an inescapable compulsion?’

‘Yes.’ She had not spoken the word out loud, had she? She wanted to take it back.

‘Very well, then. When he comes to you, you will tell him to hand himself over to me. Reassure him that I have sworn his safety and that all will be well. He will not be able to refuse you. You know how to command him. You are his maker. Do you understand and agree, Maria?’

‘You will not kill him!’

‘I will not. The aegis will bind me as much as you. Is it a compact between us, for the life of your son?’

The faintest of nods. An impossibly slight zephyr. A ghostly ‘Yes’.

Azual smiled. The boy would live and learn the true nature of suffering. He would yearn for death but be denied it, for death would be a kindness, and kindness was the last thing Azual intended. The boy would be made a living horror. He would be a son of sorts, the son Azual had never had.

Saint Izat picked her way carefully along the muddy road. Her grey boots were of the finest calfskin, so it would be a crime to get them dirty. She couldn’t believe just how backward the south was: in her region of the west every road was properly paved and maintained. Well-kept roads meant faster transport of goods, fewer spillages, fewer accidents, more efficient trade, lower prices, greater profits, happier people and, ultimately, greater power for her region. The rutted puddles before her now were not just unsightly, but also offensive to her very philosophy and being.

‘See how the land embodies the nature of its Saint! See how the mad one has made this region.’

She picked her way along a narrow strip of firm ground between the mud and trees. Her foot slipped and she screeched, frightening roosting birds up from the forest. She used her power to move at an unnatural speed to recover her balance and preserve what she could of her dignity. At this rate, she would be drained of magic before she’d travelled more than a few miles into Azual’s territory. And she could not just replenish herself with any of the People she came across, as they belonged to the mad Saint, who might see her through their eyes, even if he did not sense one of his own People being drained. Izat needed to be frugal with her magic, or she would be powerless to deal with the boy when the time came. Were it not for that, she would have been able to imbue her limbs with the strength required to cross the land with prodigious leaps, and skim across the ground so quickly that it did not have time to soil her feet.

Not for the first time Izat cursed that she had not thought to bring a horse, not that she knew how to ride one, as she’d never had cause before, and not that she would have been able to tolerate it publicly defecating and urinating wherever and whenever the fancy took it. Besides, it wouldn’t have been at all necessary if the blasted gnome hadn’t proved himself so incompetent. Not only had Bion failed to detain the boy or persuade him to head west, but he’d also gone and got himself killed. Worse than careless! It was positively inconsiderate. Izat could not abide poor manners at the best of times, and these were very far from the best of times, what with puddles and muck all around her.

‘I am holy! Divinely pristine. What an outrage it is that I must be here. And the smell is quite weakening. There aren’t even any flowers here to sweeten the air. Winter would be no excuse, were they but civilised enough to have heard of mahonia, winter jasmine and box. There should be avenues of such blooms for everyone.’

Another slight slip and she had to resist the urge to draw energy again, instead grabbing a slimy tree branch to keep herself upright. She turned her hand over and flinched to see a greeny blackness on her palm. She held it out away from her as if to show and shame the world.

‘Everything here is contaminating! I think the plague must be innate to all life here, so corrupted is it. None of it is worth saving. It is right that I have come to undo this region, as then a fresh start can be made. Yes, I will cleanse this region and make a beautiful garden of it, a place where people can innocently frolic, gambol and gad. I will be their holy gardener and artist. I will grow the People’s sensibility and elevate them above this mud in which they grovel, as if they were still waiting to be born from the primeval ooze or primordial soup. The hold of the Geas must be broken so that the People can grow and discover potential in and of themselves. I will free them so that they can one day find their place among the stars rather than the fetid and infested bog of this region.’

The region – as it currently was – represented an assault on her very person. It would merely be an act of self-defence to drain many of the People here. Some would have to die so that the rest could live more ennobled lives. And she needed their life energy if she was to be strong enough to travel quickly, retrieve the boy, potentially fend off both Azual and the Peculiar and break the hold of the Geas. So much to do! But she had to find a way to drain the People without being detected by Azual until it was too late. Then she had an idea. It would involve a disguise.

‘Oh, wonderful! I get to dress up. And I simply must have a mask for myself. How delicious! It will be just like one of my masque balls.’

But where to play out the part? The boy had told Bion he was heading for Hyvan’s Cross, but that was the site of Azual’s home temple, so Izat dared not attempt anything there. The next nearest town was Heroes’ Brook, and Izat had an agent there who could supply her with a costume as necessary. Yes, that would be ideal.

Izat concentrated and called out, ‘Stixis, can you hear me?’

Yes, holy one. One moment
, came back the mental voice of the Minister of Heroes’ Brook. Then:
What is your will?

‘You are wearing the headband of sun-metal? The rabid one cannot hear your thoughts?’

I wear the headband, holy one. Command me
.

‘I will soon be with you, adorable Stixis.’

Praise be! The Saviours are kind. What must I do to prepare for your coming?

‘Gather young people together who have not yet been Drawn. Tell them you are preparing them for the day when they will be Drawn to the blessed Saviours, which might be sooner than they think. I will be with you tomorrow. Have Saintly ceremonial robes ready for my arrival, and the sort of paganesque mask that is worn by the Saints when a region is new to the Empire. It must be the visage of the Lord of Mayhem, do you understand, Stixis?’

Yes, holy one. I yearn to do your will. I yearn to see you again. It has been so long
.

‘Fear not, beloved. My love will be yours.’

Thank you, holy one, thank you!
the Minister sobbed in gratitude through the link.

Izat smiled to herself. Heroes’ Brook would provide her with the power she needed and perhaps even a young army of sorts. Yes, there was beauty and poignancy to be had from brave young Heroes giving their lives. Their deaths would be a glorious tragedy and inspiration to the rest of the People of this region, just as Jillan’s death would be.

‘Time I picked my feet up,’ Izat announced, now free to draw on her power and lift herself up out of the grime. ‘If matters can be expedited quickly in Heroes’ Brook, I can be at the main crossroads to Hyvan’s Cross before Jillan has passed through it. I may have everything settled and be back at home by tomorrow night. I do hope so, because I am sure the sickly air of this region seeks to play havoc with my skin. And then there’s the stress of it all, not to mention missing out on sleep tonight. Honestly, I am a living and miraculous work of art to remain so divinely beautiful under such circumstances. Yet it must be done for the People. Without this form and figure to behold, they would have nothing to move them, nothing to worship and nothing to make their lives worth living. Ah, the sacrifices I make.’

The warriors of the upper village and their new chief descended into the lower village. They came in all their finery, gemstones and feathers on display, and also carried their weapons. Minister Praxis had a place of honour at Braggar’s right elbow, while the white-haired Slavin stood on his left.

Sal, the old matriarch of the lower village, stood with Torpeth ahead of the assembled villagers.

‘Stop fidgeting, you old goat. Do your fleas bite you?’

‘They do, beloved, they do. They are agitated and fearful. Chief Blackwing is no more. A conniving lowlander stands as counsellor to the new chief, a chief who comes accoutred for war.’

‘And so the gods test us, old goat.’

Torpeth scratched at his gums with his dirty fingernails, drawing blood but not noticing. ‘Yes, so they test us, beloved. And the murder of Blackwing is our people’s first response to that test. It was poorly done and an ill omen. I fear what is to come.’

‘If we are found wanting, the punishment will be of our own making. It was ever thus, old goat.’

Torpeth sighed. ‘They did not heed my warning. Yet I did not heed the warning so long ago, when I first warred on the people in the name of the gods.’

‘And your punishment has been of your own making, has it not?’

‘Aye, of my own making, beloved.’

‘You caused great suffering and much death, old goat. Now you must live forever with great suffering, always denied the forgiveness of the gods, people and yourself. Pity will never be yours and nor will mercy, for you showed none to others. Friends, you have none. The closest you have is the lowlander, him whom you despise, for he is more similar to you than you would like. Love, you have none, for you showed none to others and I will never allow it. Grief and ashes are all you will have. Yet you have created this world for yourself, old goat, and so you must live in it forever more, or until the world is undone because of your crime.’

Tears came to Torpeth’s eyes. He sniffed hard and swallowed while the headwoman remained stony-faced. ‘Is there no hope then, beloved?’