Empire of the Saviours (Chronicles of/Cosmic Warlord 1) (32 page)

Tears trickled down his face. He cursed the Saint for what he’d done to all the innocent people in his life. He now knew that if any of them was ever to have any sort of life with meaning, then he would have to start fighting rather than be forever running and hiding. If he constantly fled from danger and sought non-existent places of safety, then he would be just like Jacob – he would be meekly letting go of any life and character in return for long years of grey monotony and a gentle passage into death.

He was tired and numb, but at last had some sort of resolve, some sort of direction. He would fight the Saint, even if he ultimately died for it. He would release Aspin simply because the Saint wanted him imprisoned. In that sense, Aspin and Jillan were the same, for the Saint wanted Jillan captured and imprisoned too. In many ways, Jillan had always been a prisoner to the law and will of the Saviours and their Saint. The Empire was a prison – albeit a large one – for life, the mind and the soul. Just as he’d accused Ash of being a prisoner, so he was one also. Perhaps he’d been unfair on Ash. What choice had the woodsman had really? He had no freedom to speak of, no freedom to choose or exercise his own will. Well, now, Jillan intended to do what he could to fight his way free. He wasn’t afraid to die. He didn’t have anything left to lose anyway, since he didn’t have any life worth living as it was.

Jillan wiped his face and got shakily to his feet. ‘I’m fine,’ he said to Aspin and unlocked the door to the cell. He moved inside and tried the different keys on the manacles as Aspin held them up.

‘Oh no! None of them fit. But these were all the keys the guards had.’

Aspin sighed despondently. ‘Thank you for trying. I think the other guard, the Captain, had the key for these.’

Jillan followed the chains from the manacles to the far wall, where they were securely affixed. ‘Hold on, let me try this.’ He pulled Samnir’s blunt short sword out from inside his shirt and fitted its rounded point into the loop sunk in the wall. Then he put his weight on the hilt to try and prise the loop free, praying the sword wouldn’t just bend or snap.

The point slipped. ‘Gah!’ Jillan hit his forehead against the wall and clattered with the weapon to the stone floor.

‘Careful! You all right?’

There was blood on the blade. As Jillan gazed stupidly at it, the blood was absorbed by the metal and its dull surface began to gleam. Brighter and brighter.

‘Ye gods! How it shines. ’Tis like the sun!’ Aspin said in awe.

‘I think it’s sun-metal,’ Jillan replied in amazement. ‘It’s very valuable. Here, let me try it on the manacles now.’

The sun-metal cut through the iron as if it wasn’t even there.

Jillan couldn’t take his eyes off the sword. It sang to him. And Samnir had given it to him! The old soldier had given away the one thing that might have successfully defended him against the Saint. Samnir had given Jillan his life! He felt elated, guilty, responsible, grateful and awful all at once.

There was the scuff of a footstep at the top of the stairs. Jillan’s heart leapt into his mouth.

Thought you were ready to die? Looks like it’s going to happen a bit sooner than you reckoned
.

‘There’s someone coming,’ Aspin hissed unnecessarily, trying to get up, but his arms refused to work. He rolled awkwardly onto his knees like a beggar who’d been deliberately crippled so that he could make a better living.

‘Stay back!’ Jillan challenged.

Oo, brave! Bet that scared ’em
.

The footsteps did not stop coming. Darkest shadow engulfed the stairwell. A red eye blazed malevolently upon them.

‘Did you think I would not know, Jillan?’ scraped a voice from his nightmares. ‘The Saint
always
knows. At last you are mine!’

CHAPTER 8:

Life therefore being a prison

‘I
feel sick,’ Aspin muttered as the monster stared menacingly down at them.

Jillan waggled his sword at the Saint, the air shimmering around the blade.

‘Where did you get that, boy? It’s no child’s toy. You stole it, did you not?’

‘It’s mine by right,’ Jillan said fiercely. ‘Come closer and see if I’m playing.’

‘Put it down now and I might not kill you.’

‘He lies!’ Aspin gulped with difficulty. ‘I can read it. He wants you alive for some reason.’

‘Silence!’ the Saint thundered at Aspin, his voice deafening them in the enclosed space.

The boys clapped their hands over their ears in agony, Jillan having to juggle his weapon. Blood trickled between the fingers of one of Aspin’s hands.

‘How does it feel to have someone know what
you’re
thinking, eh?’ Jillan retorted, although his voice sounded small and whining even to his own ears. ‘Not very nice is it, h-holy one?’

‘He cannot know what I think,’ the Saint denied. ‘My thoughts are far beyond his understanding. Jillan, enough of this pretence. I am your holy Saint. You know better than to disobey me. You should be bowing to me. The incident in Godsend was … unfortunate, an accident, was it not? You have not been served well by those around you, for it has brought you to this blasphemy. They should not have encouraged and helped you to escape. If the matter had been dealt with correctly in the first instance, far less harm would have been done. You do know that the boy Karl did not die, don’t you?’

Jillan’s jaw dropped.

‘Yes, he only suffered a few burns, that’s all. All is well in Godsend. I will purge the taint from you and you can go home.’

‘He lies,’ Aspin asserted. ‘The boy is dead. Jillan, keep the point of your sword up. He intends to rush you.’

‘Wretched pagan!’ Azual roared, shaking the chamber and making rock dust fill the air.

They all ended up coughing, the Saint included.

‘Th-then he is dead?’

‘Jillan.’ The Saint had to work hard to make his voice reasonable. ‘Jillan, I merely sought to spare you guilt and grief. I know it was an accident beyond your control. In some ways, it was my fault for not having Drawn you sooner. I know how you have suffered in this. You are a victim of the accident too. The innkeeper got what he deserved, though. You did well. I am pleased.’

Jillan blinked. He so wanted to believe the holy Saint Azual. He wanted everything to be all right again. He wanted the taint out of him. It was all the taint’s fault Karl had died anyway.

Well, there’s gratitude for you. Those bullies would have probably killed you
.

He was tired and wanted to go home, to find his mother cooking broth and smiling at one of his father’s jokes. He wanted Jed to ruffle his hair, clap him on the shoulder and give him a new stone for his collection. He wanted to see Hella, desperately wanted to see Hella. It hurt just to think of her and how he’d ruined everything.

‘Y-you have taken my parents.’

With exaggerated patience and a flickering smile, the Saint explained, ‘I put them under guard for their own protection. You know what Minister Praxis and the elders of Godsend are like. They are simple folk who too quickly look to blame others. It’s not surprising really, given how close they are to the wilderness and the dark influence of the Chaos. The Minister and Elder Corin had them all stirred up and ready to lynch your parents for having come from New Sanctuary. You knew they were from that town originally, yes?’

Jillan nodded.

‘He’s lying again.’

Azual’s nostrils flared in anger but he did not raise his voice this time. Instead, he shone his eye fully on Jillan and said with soft sibilance, ‘You know you can’t trust a pagan. They are corrupt, they are liars by nature. Through dark manipulation, they seek to bring down the Empire. You know this, Jillan. It is part of scripture. Do not let yourself fall under his spell. He says the opposite of my holy word and has you believing him. Resist him, Jillan. Put the sword down. I will purge you and all will be well again. I will talk to the elders of Godsend and they will allow your parents to live among them once more. Do you not want to see Hella again?’

‘Get back! Look out!’ Aspin shouted.

Jillan had stopped blinking as the Saint asked the question at the heart of things: he had found Jillan’s sacred heart and spoken directly to it. ‘I-I …’ he stammered. He started at Aspin’s warning and saw that the Saint had sidled closer.

Jillan tried to get his blade up and put some distance between himself and the Saint, but it was already too late. Azual swept forward, slapped the sword out of Jillan’s hand and kicked it behind him. Then he curled long thick fingers around Jillan’s neck and pulled him off the floor. Aspin ran forward, but the Saint was ready for him, planted a foot in the middle of the youth’s chest and propelled him back across the cell. The young warrior crunched into the wall and collapsed.

Azual drew Jillan’s face close to his own. Jillan could see his blood-red reflection and the pulsing veins in the Saint’s livid eye. The all but permanent snarl on Azual’s face gave him a feral, animal look. His hot breath smelt of old blood and rotting things.

‘What do you have to say for yourself now, boy? I gave you a chance to repent, but you would prefer to betray everyone that’s ever cared for you or provided you with shelter than see your selfish desires thwarted, would you not? You would prefer to side with the jealous enemies of the Empire, would you not? What is it they promised you, eh? What price your faith and duty? No, don’t deny it! I have caught you red-handed consorting with a miserable pagan. There’s not a single community in the Empire that would spare you the rope for that. What will Hella think when she hears, eh? She will feel ashamed, sullied and dirty for ever having known you. She will be reviled for some years for the friendship she afforded you. Thus are the innocent preyed upon by the Chaos and its minions. Well, boy, out of words suddenly, or does your guilt make you choke on your answer?’

He couldn’t breathe and had to use both hands to ease the pressure of just one of the Saint’s fingers on his throat. He desperately gulped down a lungful of air. ‘I—’

The Saint stuffed a glass phial into Jillan’s mouth and forced his jaws to close on it. The glass shattered, lacerated his lips and spiked into the soft palate at the top of his mouth. The Saint’s wide thumb stroked down the front of Jillan’s neck and triggered the swallowing reflex. Jillan tasted blood, most of it his own, but then a liquid that moved like an eel slithered down his gullet as well. He wanted to retch, but too quickly it was squirming all through him, as if seeking something. Mercifully, he managed to avoid taking down any of the glass and spat it free of his lips.

‘And in return for my blood, I will now have yours. As your Saint, it is mine by right.
You
are mine by right. I own the People of this region, body and mind. None are permitted magic other than by my say-so and good grace. Yet you are a traitor. For the safety of the Empire, your life and magic are forfeit,’ Azual said with satisfaction and raised a thin tube of sun-metal. He held it like a knife, pulled it back and prepared to stab it into the base of Jillan’s neck. Jillan experienced a flashback as he saw the Empire’s emissary stab down with a knife into the neck of the pagan chieftain.

He will bleed you until there’s not a drop left. You’re just going to let this happen, are you, after all the efforts I’ve made?

No! He did not want it to end like this, with this meaningless horror. He could not let it end like this. What would happen to his parents, or to Samnir and Hella? Would they be next? He reached desperately for some sort of power, any sort of power. It was slow to respond, torpid and sluggish. The Saint’s blood in him fought against his attempts, coating, dampening and muffling his magic. Come on! It rose reluctantly.

Why are you struggling then, Jillan? Didn’t you say you wanted rid of this taint, you wanted it gone, you wanted it out of you? Well, your Saint will give you precisely that. You must decide once and for all what it is you want. You must truly decide if you will give yourself to me once and for all. If you truly wish to fight the Saint and the insidious, paralysing negation he represents, it is the only way. Here is your final moment of choice, warrior. Choose! Will you give yourself over to me?

I can’t!

Choose!

With a sob that racked his entire being, he gave himself to the magic. It poured from him as a coruscating liquid fire, sweeping through the chamber, washing along the Saint’s arms and over his head. Red lava boiled from Jillan’s mouth and eyes and he spat it at the detestable creature in front of him.

The Saint howled and staggered back, frantically trying to scrub the magic from his face. Aspin registered the danger he was in, but had no strength to get out of its path. There was nothing high enough off the ground to save him. Magic licked up his clothes and set him alight. He screamed.

The Saint lurched away from Jillan, clearing the path out of the cell. His skin bubbled and the smell of sizzling pork filled the room.

Get the sword!

Jillan took a faltering step forward, the magic stuttering for a moment. With determination, he drew more power from the core of his being and took long strides towards his weapon. His vision began to swim and the magic abruptly snuffed out. One more step and the wall was tilting through ninety degrees. He realised, as if from a long way away, that he was lying on his side. The sword was only a few feet from his nose, but his arms wouldn’t obey him.

Somewhere Aspin groaned, put his back against a wall and pushed with his legs until he was standing.

Then came a chilling voice. A charred and hairless Saint emerged out of the darkness near the lower punishment chambers. ‘Stupid child!’ he sneered. ‘Did you really think my blood that is in you would let you kill me? Did you really think your bastardised pagan magicks could stand against the will and power of the blessed Saviours?’

‘Jillan, get up!’ Aspin begged.

Jillan flailed for the hilt of the sword, found it, but his fingers had no strength. The Saint’s foot came down on his hand and ground it against the floor. Pain and adrenalin gave him a few seconds of focus as he cried out. Aspin hopped over to them and kicked at the Saint’s knee, bringing all his weight down against the joint in a direction in which it was not designed to bend. As strong as the Saint was, he could not stay on his feet as his leg buckled. Azual shouted in anger as his wide seven-foot frame fell awkwardly against the stone floor.