Empire of the Saviours (Chronicles of/Cosmic Warlord 1) (33 page)

Aspin hopped forward on one leg and kicked the Saint hard beneath the chin with his other foot, the mountain warrior keeping perfect balance the whole time. The Saint’s head went back and his throat was exposed. Aspin stamped down with his kicking leg, intent on crushing his loathsome enemy’s windpipe.

A large hand shot out and caught the base of Aspin’s foot. The hand twisted his leg savagely. ‘I don’t think so, little pagan!’ Then Aspin was hurled aside as the Saint rose.

Azual lifted the tapping tube of sun-metal again. ‘You see, my moment of transformation cannot be denied. It has an inevitability that can only be destiny. And I created that destiny. My will is my destiny. Events and timelines align around my organising power, a power that owns, dictates and decides your individual existence, the existence of the communities and the existence of the People. It was
I
who brought them into the Empire, it was
I
who Drew them to the Saviours, it is
I
who provides them with their entire meaning. Behold the moment of ascension and godhead, paltry and eternally unworthy beings!’

The tube plunged down towards Jillan’s heart. He bucked and magic flared brightly across his chest, burning his white shirt away and revealing the armour below. The symbols over his heart glowed and the strength of Azual’s blow rebounded back at the smouldering Saint, flinging the holy one back. The Saint slid unceremoniously across the stone floor, charred skin tearing off him in long strips.

The sun-metal sword had been dragged away in the struggle, and was beyond Jillan’s reach. ‘Aspin?’ he whispered, but there was no response or sound. Azual slowly began to stir.

Breathing hard, Jillan struggled into a seated position and reached a hand beneath his armour to pull out a handful of the stones he had brought with him for luck and strength. His fumbling fingers dropped all of them save one. The rest scattered and skittered across the floor.

The Saint rolled over noiselessly and got his arms under him. He levered himself up. His terrible eye swung towards Jillan. ‘The armour! It is the same armour, is it not? Ha. You cannot know.’

‘I know,’ Jillan panted, having to work his jaw. ‘I was there!’

‘Impossible!’ the Saint hissed. ‘None survived. None!’

‘It is not just the Saint who always knows. You are
not
special! You are nothing, you hear me? You believe in nothing, give nothing to the People and turn the lives of everyone into nothing!’

‘Enough!’ the Saint shouted, but his voice lacked the devastating power of before. ‘You are ignorant of the ways of power. You
know
nothing! You prattle like one of the simple-minded folk they usually throw down a well.’

‘You’re wrong! I know plenty. Plenty about you.’

‘What are you talking about?’

Jillan took a deliberate breath, stealing moments where he could to recover. The problem was, the Saint would also be recovering. ‘Haven’t you read all the Book of Saviours? Some Saint you are! There’s a whole chapter about you in it. Everyone knows what your father did to you, but you don’t need to take it out on everyone else!’

‘You will not mention … him!’

‘Ha! Just because he was cruel, humiliated you and took your freedom away doesn’t mean you can then do the same to everyone else. I saw what you did to the pagans before Godsend ever existed. You stole their land. You burned their homes. You killed them. You took away the freedom of others. There’s nothing holy about you whatsoever!’

‘Blasphemy!’ the Saint seethed, slapping the floor. ‘Evil child!’ He moved towards Jillan again. ‘You have never seen the Saviours. You cannot know their glory. They have brought peace and prosperity to all. Within their Empire none can behave like my father once did. They have brought us their divine salvation, even though most are unworthy. And the unworthy refuse to understand, refuse to acknowledge the wonder of the Saviours, refuse to bow to them, refuse to perform the duty and sacrifice requested of them, although it is in their own interest and the interest of all the People. For the good of all, the unworthy must be corralled, controlled and forced to their knees in prayer.’

‘Stay back, murderer! I’m warning you!’

But the Saint was no longer listening. He made noises of inchoate rage as he came. His eye burned the air with uncontrolled power. A fierce heat radiated from him and smoke rose from his head.

Jillan gulped and tried to still the shaking in his hands. He waited until the last possible moment and then threw his stone straight at the Saint’s eye.

A screech piercing body and mind. The Saint arching backwards. Blood spurting and spraying. Limbs lashing and head thrashing. Blinded.

Bile and fear in his throat, Jillan shunted back as far as he could. He had to get up.

‘Here, get on my back!’ A ragged Aspin coughed and bent down to him.

Jillan pulled himself up. ‘Wait! The sword!’

Aspin carried him over to the weapon and bent again so that Jillan could lean for it.

The Saint slashed the air with arms outstretched and fingers formed into talons. Aspin kept low and stayed out of reach. The Saint suddenly stilled, listening for movement. ‘I can hear you breathing,’ he sang, his voice turned to madness. ‘I can smell you!’ His tongue slavered. ‘I can taste you on the air. Come here. To me.’

‘Go, go!’ Jillan urged.

Aspin half limped and half danced to the steps, and then they were climbing free, cool air filling their lungs as if it were their first breath in many minutes.

‘Come back here!’ the Saint cooed. ‘Jillan, I have your parents in Hyvan’s Cross. I will have them executed when I arrive there, unless you deliver yourself to me before then. Come here. Their deaths will be ugly and lingering.’ A moment of pause. Then an explosive command that echoed off the sky: ‘Heroes, awake! The punishment chambers! Captain, raise the men! Guard the gates!’

‘Quickly, down there,’ Jillan said in Aspin’s ear.

‘Ow! I can’t hear you. Use the other ear.’

‘Sorry … Down there. To the wagon and horse.’ Jillan gulped air. ‘You’ll have to drive it for us. To the end of the street and left to the smaller western gate.’

‘But the guards, Jillan …’

‘We are the blacksmith’s sons. He’s in the back of the wagon there, with plague … I found him at the physicker-woman’s when I went to buy a sleeping draught from her for the guards. We’ve been told to get him out of town before he can infect anyone else … They’ll let us out quick enough, you’ll see. But the Saint will see through the eyes of the guards and know which way we’ve gone, so we’ll have to get the horse moving as fast as we can once we’re outside, and get the wagon off the road when we can.’

‘D-does he really have plague?’

‘Oh, aye!’ Jillan laughed, tiredness and relief making him giddy.

‘Oh, good. I was worried things were about to get boring.’

‘Well, you’re a new visitor to the Empire, aren’t you? It’s only polite to show you some entertainment. Come on! Can’t you go any faster?’

‘I think there’s something wrong with the air down here in the stinking lowlands.’

‘Doesn’t seem to stop you speaking.’

‘Well, your gabble makes me wish I was deaf in both ears.’

‘Carry on, and you might just get your wish.’

‘Hmm. Maybe I’ll just leave you for the Saint.’

‘What, when we’re having so much fun?’ Jillan giggled and then cried with tiredness. His eyes closed and he knew no more.

Minister Praxis clung to Torpeth, trying not to breathe. The pagan holy man smelt worse than the mule upon which they rode. The holy man’s nakedness and filth were exactly what the Minister would expect of the uncivilised pagans, but actually having to come into contact with them was surely far beyond the worst suffering any Saint in the entire history of the Empire could ever have had to endure.

When Torpeth had insisted on riding the Minister’s mule with him, the Minister had naturally refused point blank – only those of a higher station within civilisation were accorded the right to travel upon the backs of lesser creatures or beings. But the treacherous mule had refused to move an inch from Torpeth’s home until the holy man’s skinny buttocks were perched on the beast’s shoulder blades and he had made a clicking noise with his tongue to tell the mule it was all right to proceed. Here was further proof, were it needed, of the base nature of the pagans, for it was clear the man and the beast had conspired together. They were of a similar mind and lesser nature. The pagan was a witch-man with savage beasts as his familiars.

The Minister cringed away from Torpeth’s back, which was directly in front of his nose, but he only succeeded in making his seat on the mule dangerously precarious. If he were to become dislodged, his fall probably wouldn’t stop until he was at the bottom of the vertiginous slope they were climbing. His head would be split open on a rock and there would be little even the Saviours could do for him. Ugh! Were there things moving in Torpeth’s matted hair? The man was infested with lice, blood-fleas, maggots no doubt, and all the creatures of corruption. He was a living embodiment of the Chaos! There was no way the Minister could hold close to him, even if it cost him his life. He prayed ardently.

Almost immediately he began to itch all over. The creatures of the Chaos had inevitably attacked him now that his sacred prayers had disturbed them. Ah, how he suffered! But he had to endure, had to remain strong in faith, else fear and doubt would topple him from his seat and undo him. Ah, but the Chaos was subtle and cunning in its ways. It inveigled itself into even mundane tasks like riding a mule up a mountain. He would not yield! He would ascend this mountain of challenge, he would prove the transcendence of his faith and the will of the blessed Saviours, he would ascend to Sainthood. He would become the more enlightened and powerful being who was Saint Praxis of the Mountains!

‘What are you muttering to yourself now, lowlander?’ Torpeth asked, hawking and spitting into the wind, only to have it blown back into his beard, not that he seemed to care. ‘You know you muttered the whole night through, do you not? Troubled dreams?’

Disgusting, soiled creature! Because he would not succumb to the skittering, jumping, biting Chaos creatures that infested them, the pagan now sought to attack his mind and self-belief. ‘I pray even in my sleep,’ the Minister replied calmly. ‘My every thought, word and deed are described by my faith.’

‘They are none of you, then? There is nothing of your own character and volition within them? Surely it is not faith then, is it? It is slavery of body, mind and spirit. How is it you ever know to loosen your bowels, for surely your so-called faith does not circumscribe your bowels, does it? Yet your body needs free will if it is to evacuate itself, does it not?’

The mule hiccuped and snorted as if to join in the pagan’s scatological attempt at mockery. Yet the Minister knew the conversation had naught to do with humour; rather, it was an attempt to demean and undermine his faith.

‘Wait, I have it!’ the pagan continued with glee. ‘You never loosen your bowels then! You never evacuate yourself! You are always full of it. No wonder you would have none of my pine nuts last night. No wonder you always have a pained expression on your face.’

The Minister remained stoical. He endured with fortitude. He would not be troubled by this devil. ‘My faith feeds me. It is all I require.’

‘But you do eat? Shame, I was hoping you were some sort of miracle from which I could learn. Your faith feeds you, you say. Does it also wipe your arse?’

Again, the pagan obsession with basic bodily functions, as if he were a young child who still had to learn not to soil himself. Minister Praxis responded with serene equanimity, ‘My faith has brought me to this place to wipe the arse-end of the Empire, my tiresome and talkative friend.’

‘Has it indeed?’ Torpeth nodded, biting on his thumb for a moment. ‘I see. Your faith and Empire occupy themselves with curious concerns then, concerns that are not entirely lofty, eh, even though you are now in the mountains? Still, your concerns would never be lofty given you are a
low
lander, hmm?’

Maybe I should throw this wretch down the mountain
. No, for then the mule would rebel. And the Minister needed the wretch to guide him for a while longer. ‘Word games, like in a school yard, pagan?’

‘Look out! Beware!’ Torpeth cried.

Minister Praxis twisted his head back and forth, suddenly scared.

Torpeth’s behind trumpeted loudly.

‘You odious ogre!’ the Minister gagged, too late burying his nose in his sleeve. Tears came to his eyes.

‘Your faith didn’t see that coming then? I’m surprised – it seemed a bit of a know-it-all just before. And did you not have fair warning? Are you all right back there? Surely my lofty mountain wind has not unmanned you and shaken your faith, has it? Yet while you’re back there, you did say you’d come to wipe the arse-end of the Empire, did you not? Well, wipe away! Be gentle, though, for I am quite attached to it, troublesome though it might sometimes be. Wipe away, I say! Come, lowlander, it is your holy mission, is it not? It would be blasphemous not to do it, would it not?’

Minister Praxis pulled a letter-opener from inside his long black coat and stabbed it with feeling and venom into Torpeth’s bare backside.

‘Aiee!’ screamed the mountain man and leapt high over the mule’s head. He danced around on the slope clutching his brutalised behind. ‘Ye gods, but how you have pricked me, lowlander! Your faith is such a pain in my posterior. I did not know you had such a prick about you and that you were prepared to be so free with it! Is nothing sacred to you then? Was it not your sacred mission to wipe my holy arse? What crimes have you instead committed against it, then? Will you not beg forgiveness of my holy arse, for it is red raw with righteous rage! Look, see!’

Torpeth bent over as if the Minister cared for a better look at his livid behind. The Minister turned his face away and nudged the mule onwards. For once, the animal obeyed him, although that was probably because Torpeth hadn’t told it to stop.

The holy man skipped alongside them, rubbing furiously at his tender flesh every now and then. He ran ahead, sat in some snow and shouted back at them, ‘There is a lesson in all this. Your faith is cruel and unapologetic. It is not to be tangled with. It will inflict itself on others in whichever manner it chooses, no matter how those others might be harmed. It cannot bear to be questioned or laughed at. It—’