The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood (33 page)

‘But you seek my help? My forever? You forgo the old ones, choosing your Giants and their
lands of men
. But still you need my help. Your now is weak and ignorant.’

The Dokkalfar and the Jekkans had never been cordial, even in the long ages before men. Few forest-dwellers could withstand their maddening illusions or defeat their monstrous servitors, but Nanon was difficult to scare and he knew that they possessed great knowledge.

‘Must we dance each time we talk?’ said the forest-dweller. ‘My Giant, your old one... these things no longer matter.’

The Jekkan purred, its tongue stroking its huge fangs. ‘I like you, knife-ears, you are direct. I must remember that your people do not enjoy the dance of words. You enjoy bluntness... and abstinence.’

‘So be blunt,’ offered Nanon. ‘Shub-Nillurath will destroy the lands of men. Tell me how to stop the creature and its witches.’

‘This battle of the Long War will cost the humans dearly. A tide of blood in their fledgling ocean. It will cost the forest-dwellers more. A twilight flame, cutting through your trees. In time you may rebuild, but you will never be the same. In the end, the Mistress of Pain will bring down Shub-Nillurath.’

‘What?’ Nanon blurted out. ‘She’s his high priestess.’

The Jekkan stepped closer and clawed at the air in front of the forest-dweller. ‘You are lost in the moment, knife-ears. Your mind cannot grasp forever. If you are asking about the moment, I can tell you that the dark-blood will fall, and the old-blood is your greatest ally... though he will become lost in cracks of beyond.’

Nanon bowed his head. ‘You’re avoiding the question. I asked how I beat him.’

There was silence but for the maddening trill of the servitor. The creature responded to its master’s emotions, but it stayed back, keeping its distance from Nanon.

‘Answer me!’ shouted the old Tyr.

‘You are out of your league,’ said the Jekkan. ‘You should follow your Giant into oblivion. Light the shadow flame and step into forever.’

‘Answer me!’ he screamed. ‘Use me for your rituals, consume my flesh, but answer me first.’

The servitor reared up, its ropey tentacles stretching forward and its amorphous flesh shifting through different shades of black. Eyes and mouths appeared randomly, forming no pattern or recognizable face, but tearing into Nanon as if they were dead friends.

‘Calm yourself, knife-ears. I will answer you.’

Nanon panted. He was still ready to run, but anger overrode fear. His head was heavy and his blood felt hot. Every twitch of movement caused burning as the Jekkan magic flooded through his system.

‘You cannot defeat Shub-Nillurath. You can only survive. This is what should occupy your mind. Run, hide, wait out this battle of the Long War and be patient.’ A sibilant hiss came from the Jekkan’s mouth. ‘You may wait here if you wish. Spend the coming centuries in beautiful madness.’

The magic softened and the servitor retreated, allowing Nanon a moment of clarity. He couldn’t stay much longer.

‘Why fight, knife-ears?’

His anger disappeared. His head cleared and suddenly he felt tired. ‘I don’t know. If I can’t win... I don’t know. Maybe friends... or stubbornness.’

‘I suspect you knew the answer,’ replied the Jekkan.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I feared, but I didn’t know. That’s why I came here.’

‘There are few soldiers of the Long War left. Few old-bloods, few creatures of deep time. No beings stand in the lands of men who can defeat Shub-Nillurath.’ The Jekkan relished the words, smacking its lips contentedly.

‘So I’ll make do with what I’ve got,’ replied Nanon. ‘We might surprise you.’

‘No!’ said the Jekkan. ‘You will not.’

He took two steps backwards, towards the cave entrance and the Jekkan barrier. Any longer in the ruin would mean death. Complicated and muddled thoughts filled his head. Pain and madness were an instant away as Nanon threw himself back, through the illusion and on to rain-soaked grass.

BOOK 2

The Giant sat in his stone hall beyond the world and wore grey.

The Giant acted with nobility and his followers wore purple, rising above other men to rule.

The Giant acted with aggression and made war upon his enemies and his followers wore red, standing tall and never questioning their duty.

The Giant showed compassion and his followers wore white, healing the sick and valuing peace.

The Giant sought knowledge and his followers wore blue, devoting themselves to learning all they could of the world and beyond.

The Giant became humble and gave to the needy, and his followers wore brown, accepting that they were unworthy.

The Giant sought riches and became greedy, and his followers wore gold, taking all that they could.

At the last, the Giant understood death and his followers wore black.

But the Giant himself remained grey.

The girl was born in the Karesian city of Thrakka. Her earliest memories were of high spires, dusty streets and rolling deserts. She remembered anger and hatred, but no love. If the girl had ever known her parents, the memories were lost. The first faces she knew belonged to other street children and criminals, though even they were distant. She recalled no names, just that she was used by unclean men and envied by other girls.

By her fourteenth year, the girl was hard and uncaring. She knew how to hold a knife and where to stick it. She knew how to lie and to whom. She knew how to steal and, most importantly, how not to get caught. She’d seen boys and girls die on the streets of Thrakka, used up by a world that catered only to the very rich. She lived by her wits and resolved to survive. If Karesia used people until they had no more to give, the girl would be a user and not a victim.

She avoided the brothels and harems, preferring to keep her own company as she traversed the underworld of Thrakka. She sacrificed the money and protection offered by the criminal classes, but never sacrificed her freedom. If she was to be used up, it would be on her own terms. A bribe here, a seductive smile there. She was clever and knew when to fight, when to run, and when to manipulate. She lived in the bottom level of an abandoned vizier tower, eating only what she could steal and wearing the clothes of those she’d killed.

Her name was Anasaara Valez and she was destined for more than the streets of Thrakka.

On her eighteenth birthday, a procession arrived in the city. She watched its arrival from her isolated domain, hidden behind moveable rocks. The procession had been long-heralded and two hundred wind claws accompanied the visitors. Rich merchant families and viziers watched from balconies and Karesians of every stripe lined the streets to pay their respects to the matron mother of Oron Kaa. The elderly woman was tall and thin, with harsh features and penetrating eyes. She had with her a procession of young girls, acquired from every Karesian city. The girls had been chosen to form the priesthood of Jaa. They would be tested and tortured until only seven remained. Every family in Thrakka hoped that their daughter would be chosen to join the enchantresses and many threw coins and wealth in front of the procession in an effort to gain the mother’s favour.

They walked slowly around the city. At every intersection, the mother stopped and took a deep breath of the air, as if expecting to find something. Each time she passed Anasaara’s hovel, the procession stopped for several moments. Nearby, merchants aggressively thrust their daughters forward, hoping that the mother would notice them. After the third circuit of Thrakka, the old woman began to smile. It was a toothy grimace, with no humour.

‘Come to me, child,’ she said to the air.

Anasaara felt compelled to obey. She removed the loose rocks that hid her dwelling and approached the procession. Hundreds of eyes watched her and the wind claws parted to allow her to come close to the matron mother.

‘Do you know who I am?’ asked the old woman.

Anasaara said nothing.

‘Can you speak?’

Again, the girl was silent.

‘You are wilful, girl. But we will break you of that.’

Anasaara looked around her. Angry merchants were returning to their homes, disappointed that their daughters had not been chosen. The girl was not surprised. She knew that she had been chosen long before the procession arrived.

‘You will come with us to Oron Kaa,’ said the mother. ‘Your life is now mine.’

* * *

Everything changed. The girl was pampered and well fed. The journey south was long, but comfortable, and they were transported in litters carried by dozens of muscular slaves. No one spoke about their new life or about the sinister old woman who accompanied them, but each young girl was happy. This changed when they reached Oron Kaa.

The abbey was of stone, rising from the Sunset Coast to touch the clouds. The shimmering deserts of Far Karesia distorted the building, making it writhe in the stifling air. Then the torture began.

The girl remembered the pain and she remembered the questions. Each new day brought new pain and new questions. The matron mother didn’t expect answers, but she asked anyway. The girl remained wilful, determined to survive, no matter what. She saw girls skinned alive and thrown into the Scorched Sea to be eaten by sharks. She saw her own skin flayed and healed, flayed and healed. Time and again, she was mutilated and made whole. Each new torture brought more pain and more questions.

‘Who are you?’

‘What do you fear?’

‘What is pain?’

Her body broke a hundred times, but her mind never did. As time passed, the girl realized that she was not ageing. The wind claws who guarded her grew old and died, but the girls remained eighteen. Time was meaningless. All Anasaara felt was pain until it was the only thing she had left.

‘Who are you?’

‘I am no one.’

‘What do you fear?’

‘Nothing but Jaa.’

‘What is pain?’

The last question was asked a thousand times, but she didn’t know the answer. Their faces began to change until all the remaining girls looked the same. They were beautiful, with lush figures and enchanting eyes. Even their voices became similar. The matron mother paid special attention to Anasaara, singling her out from the remaining girls and personally administering her torture. She did not age either, remaining a sharp-faced old woman, as the third generation of their guards died of old age.

She clung to her pain. It became her entire world. Hundreds of years and all she felt was pain, until it no longer hurt.

‘Who are you?’

‘I am one of the Seven Sisters.’

‘What do you fear?’

‘Nothing but Jaa.’

‘What is pain?’

She paused, no longer doubting the answer. ‘Pain is my servant. I am its mistress.’

Her life changed once again. The torture stopped and she was allowed to dress and bathe. She ate food for the first time in centuries and found it gave her no pleasure. She spoke to the other girls and learned their names, but their company was nothing but a distraction. She was their leader and she would remain apart.

As her sisters were tattooed, Anasaara learned of the world. She read books, studied maps and gained wisdom about the lands of men and its gods. The barbarian lands of Rowanoco had formed an order of warrior priests, and the ordered lands of the One were policed by armies of clerics. In contrast, Jaa had invested power in only seven of his followers, gifting each with great power and trusting in quality, not quantity.

When she left Oron Kaa, Anasaara Valez was dead. All that remained was Saara the Mistress of Pain.