The Children of Another God

235 Pages·2011·1.01 MB·English

by  Southwell T C

The Broken World
Book One

Children of another God

T C Southwell
Published by T C Southwell at Smashwords

Copyright © 2010 T C Southwell

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Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen
Chapter One

A raven hovered on the icy wind, its pinions rippling as it surveyed the land
below. It descended, riding the wind like a swift, frolicsome steed, its wings
folding and outstretching as the breeze intensified or diminished. Its cruel beak
snapped from side to side, studying the feast it had discovered, its beady eyes
bright. With a harsh cry, it lowered sharp-clawed feet and perched atop a broken
spear, folding its wings as the wind ruffled its feathers.

Chanter opened his eyes. Wind-torn clouds of billowing, swelling grey
vapour flew above him. A dark river invaded a pale canyon and turned into a
grey wall. Pain washed through him in a gentle tide, a dull, faraway sensation.
Earthpower soaked into him from the cold mountainside on which he lay.
Pockets of snow nestled amid the black rocks, much of it stained pink with the
blood that had been spilt here earlier. Death stalked the killing field as a pale
mist, swallowing the souls of the fallen that hung over their bodies in a
shimmering shroud only he could see. Dolana, the Earthpower, froze his fingers
and toes and sent icy tendrils into his heart, numbing him. He welcomed it. If
only his life could end here and now, amongst the dead of his clan and the cold
company of spirits, so he might join them.
The spear that had been driven through him in a savage thrust protruded
from his chest. He had been the first to fall. His hand still clutched the blood-
smeared shaft. He remembered his feeble attempt to pull it free soon after it had
impaled him. Now he wondered why he had come to the battle. A foolish wish
to stand beside his clan in war. With fading eyes, he watched the mist gather and
swirl as it joined the hordes of dead into a sparkling form.
The Lady of Death, Marrana, stalked the battlefield this day, gathered the
dead to her and enfolded them in her cold, ragged cloak. The form floated closer,
mesmerising him with its weird beauty and the terror that preceded it. The
shimmering soul-mist gathered to it, swelling it, and within its greyness he
looked upon the face of Death. A thing of beauty and horror, of sorrow and
ecstasy, turning this way and that as she gathered the souls. Now the aspect of
the hag, now the beauteous maiden, then the burning fiend of retribution. All
souls drew to her, their differences forgotten with the lives they had lost, and
entered her embrace for the journey to the Lake of Dreams.
Chanter drew on Dolana, willing Death to walk a little closer and claim him
too. The Earthpower flowed into him with cool intensity, draining him.
Marrana, he longed to cry out, take me with you to the Lake of Dreams!
Don't leave me here alone. Why am I denied the end you grant so many others?
Such a plea would gain him nothing, however.
The goddess walked by, her tattered cloak of grey mist brushing his face
with cold rags. A deathly caress, a brief glimpse into beyond and the light of
glory there. Chanter strained at the ground, his bloody hands gripping cold soil,
but for him there was no tug of summons. He was the reason for her coming, yet
he would be the only one left behind. Sagging back, he watched her drift away.
The raven cawed, and Chanter closed his eyes. When he opened them again,
he was alone on the icy, wind-swept field of death. So, if Death would not take
him, then Life must. He called on Dolana, and the surge of Earthpower sapped
his strength like a leech at his blood. His mind locked with the raven's, which
spread dusty wings and landed on his chest with a thud. He imprinted his will
upon the bird, and its feathers brushed his face, then it winged away into the cold
greyness with a harsh, echoing cry.
Two days passed in silent dark and light. Icicles formed on the spear shaft
and almost reached his chest. Dolana sapped him, but he could summon no other
power while he was pinned to the ground. He consigned himself to sleep's sweet
oblivion, and escaped the cold and loneliness together.

Rough hands pulled him up, and pain exploded through him as fresh blood
washed over the blackened crusts on his chest. He raised his head with frozen
muscles, and his lips twisted in a bloody snarl. Dolana drained, taking the cold
with it, and the warmth of Crayash flamed. He lashed out with a savage jerk, and
someone cursed, pinned his arm and twisted it as peasant voices mumbled close
by in a strange dialect.
Wood hit him on the head as he was tossed into the back of a cart. The
wheels rattled over frozen ground, jolting him. A dark figure crouched beside
him, and the Power of Crayash swelled in Chanter, warming him. A rough hand
took hold of the spear and tugged. Voices cursed, and more hands joined the
task. Two of them pulled the frozen shaft from his chest with a sucking gurgle
and a flood of warm blood. Chanter closed his eyes, glad that the discomfort was
gone, and let the rattling wheels lull him.
Icy earth hit the side of his head, and he opened his eyes. The wagon rattled
away, the two men whipping the skinny horse into an unwilling trot. Dolana
flowed through him, its seeping cold embracing him again. Crayash was gone
from his reach, and he watched his blood soaked into the snow. Muffled
footsteps approached, and he looked up at his captor.
Mishak studied his new acquisition with jaundiced eyes. The raven had
brought a vision of power and blood, death and a living soul. Now he knew why.
The man who lay on the snow was Mujar, unable to die. Mishak leant on his
staff and sighed. He had lived alone in his dilapidated cabin since his son had
been stolen three years before, and the inhabitants of the village at the bottom of
the neighbouring valley called him a hermit. They respected his wisdom,
however, and some considered him to be a sage, occasionally paying for his
advice to settle disputes and avert potential disasters.
The blacksmith and his son had agreed to fetch the man Mishak had seen in
his vision from Prair's Crag because Mishak had settled a dispute between them
and the local miners last year concerning the price and quality of the ore. Mishak
frowned at the injured unman.
The Mujar's half open eyes glowed silver-blue, the pupils pin points. Thick
black lashes offset the pale irises, making them shine like jewels. One of the
reasons people hated Mujar. Burning eyes, they called them, or shining eyes.
Mishak prodded the Mujar's blood-caked chest with his staff. "You want
comforts?"
Slowly his eyes closed, and he nodded.
Mishak grunted. "No harm."
Again the unman nodded, raising a hand in the traditional palm-up gesture
of the defeated. His mouth worked, and blood dribbled out as he grated, "No
harm."
Mishak bent and gripped the shoulder of the Mujar's studded leather tunic.
He might be a greybeard, but Mujar were slender, and so not a heavy load to
drag. Within the log cabin, Mishak dropped his burden next to the fire with a
groan as his back ached. The Mujar turned to the blaze, and Mishak brought his
staff down with a ringing crack on the hearth stones.
"No Powers!"

Chanter looked up at his captor, an old Lowman with a long white beard
and wrinkled skin. He had not been going to use the Crayash. He only wanted to
get closer to its warmth and banish the chill from his bones, but the old man was
nervous, that was plain. He withdrew, and the Lowman turned and leant his staff
against the wall, shucking his black cloak. Beneath it he wore a ragged robe of
dirty brown wool, a grey shift showing at its hem.
Chanter glanced around at the dingy cabin, whose log walls were thick with
dust. Cobwebs and ancient bunches of dried herbs dangled from the rafters, and
tarnished copper pots hung above a blackened wood stove in the corner. A water
barrel stood in another corner, and shelves held an assortment of unidentifiable
dusty oddments. Rotting curtains covered the windows and moth-eaten rugs
were scattered on the dirty floor. A rough-hewn table held soiled cups and
plates, and a solitary chair stood beside a chest of drawers. The man walked to
the basin on a stool beside the water barrel and scooped up a cup of water.
Returning to his captive, he held it out of reach.
"You asked for help," the man said, "and you've had it. What's the
gratitude?"
Chanter tried to swallow, then grated, "Wish."
"Anything?"
Chanter nodded, letting his head rest on the stone floor. Dolana seeped into
him again, weakening him. The Lowman knelt and held the cup to his lips.
Chanter sucked at the water, swallowed jerkily and coughed. The Power of
Shissar flowed into him, bringing with it the agony that always accompanied a
Mujar's healing. He convulsed, blood oozing from the wound in his chest.
The old man watched him writhe, looking alert, presumably for the first
sign of another Power. A rush of wind and the sound of beating wings filled the
room, and he kicked Chanter hard enough to make him grunt.
"No Powers!"
Chanter groaned and rolled onto his side to escape the old man's boots. He
clawed at the floor, grimacing as he fought to control the wild surge of Ashmar
that sometimes accompanied healing. The sound of beating wings vanished, and
the man relaxed, sinking into the old wooden chair.
As Chanter's writhing calmed, the Lowman ladled stew from the pot over
the fire and settled down to eat. The Mujar closed his eyes, and for some time
only the scrape of the old man's spoon broke the silence. When it stopped,
Chanter opened his eyes and sat up. His captor pulled an iron poker from the
flames, and the Mujar's eyes followed it as he once again made the palm-up
gesture.
"Gratitude."
"Mujar." The man spat into the fire. "The eternally damned. Iron through
the brain will hurt you."
Chanter nodded.
"Name," the old man snapped. "The real one, mind you."
Chanter lowered his eyes to the floor. "Chanter."
The man pulled open a drawer in the chest beside him and took out a quill,
an inkpot and a scrap of parchment. Dipping the quill in the ink, he wrote the
name on the parchment and threw it into the fire. Chanter coughed and
collapsed.
The man nodded. "Good. A good start. Lie to me, and you'll suffer."
Chanter gasped, his chest burning as his name crisped in the flames. When
it eased, he sat up again, folded his legs beside him and rested his weight on one
hand. He kept his head bowed, so his dirty hair hid his face. The dried mud and
gore that covered him was so thick it cracked when he moved, and an unpleasant
graveyard smell hung about him.
The Lowman refilled his bowl and ate with slow relish. Chanter picked at
the scabs of dried blood on the back of his hand to distract himself from his
hunger. The oldster knew a little of Mujar ways, and was now in possession of
the small amount of power over him that his name bestowed. Still, he was too
weak to flee and, despite the Lowman's cruelty, he was indebted to him. Better
just to sit and draw on Crayash for warmth, the Shissar the man had bestowed
slowing the blood that oozed from his wound.
The Lowman prodded the Mujar with his toe. "I am Mishak. You will call
me 'master', understand?"
Chanter nodded.
Mishak grunted. "When the raven brought news of a living soul amongst the
dead I thought it was a man, not a damned Mujar. You, I'd have left till the rain
or snow cured you. You have no real need of my help. Why send the raven?"
"Wish."
"Speak to me, damn you, or I'll brain you with this poker and you'll suffer.
I'll tell you my Wish when I'm good and ready."
Chanter raised his head. "I was pinned. Water would have trapped me."
"Ah." Mishak chuckled. "Stuck forever to a mountainside with a spear
through your chest, eh? Or was it a sword? No matter. Nasty thought, but no less
than you deserve. Damned Mujar scum." He leant forward. "Well, you're at my
mercy now. I have your name and your gratitude. You'll do as I say."
The Mujar nodded again.
Mishak rose and went to the basin to fill another cup with water. Returning
to his captive, he pushed the Mujar onto his back with a boot. Chanter braced
himself as the stream of shining water fell onto his chest. Its touch made him
writhe, and Mishak smiled. He sank into his chair again, watching the Mujar's
suffering with evident satisfaction.
Chanter relaxed as the spasms eased, his gasps a painful wheeze through a
dry throat. The wound in his chest had closed, and strength surged through him,
along with the urge to escape. He could not leave, however, he had granted a
Wish and must wait to hear it spoken. He sat up and bowed his head.
"I promised you comforts," Mishak said, "but you stink up my house. Go
out to the well and wash, then you may eat."
Chanter rose and headed for the door. In the freezing wind, he stripped off