Farlander (66 page)

He heard a shout even through the thick glass, carried up from one of the windows on the floor below. Again his stomach quailed.

Kirkus had only truly feared for his life once before now, and that had been several years ago during his first purging. He had broken halfway through that week-long ritual; in no way had he been able to summon the will to carry on.

His grandmother had come to him then, offering water as she sponged the foul mess from his face. At last he had stopped shaking. His tears had ceased to flow. He had looked up at her, still seeing phantoms. He knew he was close to losing his mind.

Why is the divine flesh so strong
? she had whispered into his ear.

He had only croaked in response, unable to speak.

Tell me!
she demanded, her voice lashing him like a whip.

Because . . . it does not suffer . . . from weakness
, he had recited, barely able to breathe the words.

Good. Now tell me of such weaknesses.

He felt then as though he was high on narcotics and his thoughts refused to focus. He fought to gather them by holding fast to his grandmother’s words.

Conscience
, he gasped.

Good. And why do we consider conscience to be a weakness?

He had faltered at that. He knew the answer, but in his broken condition, his mind shattered, he was unable to frame it into words.

The old crone smiled.
Because, my child, it is not our natural condition.
And then her smile faded, for his head had dropped again in exhaustion.
Listen, this is crucial!

With all his strength he lifted his head once more.

Even the Daoists know this. There is no natural sense of right or wrong in the world, no inherent laws of justice. Does a she wolf feel guilty when she comes upon something young and vulnerable, and devours it? No, she does not, for she needs to live and feed her pups. Conscience is a concept know only to man. People teach their children such notions, so that they might know from right and wrong, but no one is born with these beliefs within them.

Kirkus had frowned. He knew all of this. Why was she wasting what little time was left to him?

Now tell me. Why do people instil such ideals as conscience in their young. Hmm?

Because they’re weak
, he said, recalling the words he needed.
They need rules to protect themselves from the strong.

Indeed. For they look at the world around them, and they see the cruelty of it, the death and injustice, the blind chance, the struggles for survival and dominance, their own ever-closing mortality, and they quail. They cannot face the bitter truth of it; to do so would be to drive them mad, even as they call us followers of Mann mad. And so, they invent ways to protect themselves from the realities of life; conscience, laws and justice, right and wrong, the World Mother. In these things they seek sanctuary, huddling together against the coldness of the world while they share in the warmth of their own delusions
.

But we are Mann, Kirkus. We are not so weak. You and I, all of us of Mann, we have been instilled since youth with a more honest set of rules. We have been forced to look upon the world and accept it for what it truly is.
This is our power. This is
your
power. Never forget that, child. Never forget your power, for you are strong boy, strong.

Now survive this. Summon your will. Push through
.

It had been enough, at that time. He had made it through the purging.

Kirkus exhaled. His breath clouded the glass and obscured the world of fog beyond. For a moment he thought of Lara. He wondered where she was today, if she had gone to watch the games perhaps.

He knew that Asam and Brice would be there by now. He imagined the three of them meeting in the imperial stand, their talk made easy by their years spent in tussle and play as children together, in the quiet halls and dark dens of the Temple of Whispers – they and Kirkus. He pictured Lara’s small face as they told her that Kirkus would not be coming today, that he was imprisoned in the Temple until his mother decided otherwise. The slow blink of her eyes as she heard this. Her words that changed the subject entirely, and had nothing to do with Kirkus save in the absence of any mention of him.

Lara,
said his inner voice.

Kirkus pulled his forehead away from the window. He circled the room, making a conscious effort to focus his will. He stopped at one of the steaming bowls and bent to inhale deeply, feeling the rush of the narcotic coursing through his body. Strength flooded into his muscles and he straightened up. He swung the sword again. It whistled through the air.

He had been trained since youth in how to use such a weapon.

If they made it this far inside the temple, he would kill them all. Every last one of them.

*

It was oddly deserted on this uppermost floor. They stepped into a high-vaulted chamber which led through to similar chambers, all lit by low-flickering gaslights. The air was warmly oppressive. Tendrils of smoke curled across ceilings covered in decorative plaster. Doors lined the walls to left and right, muffled voices audible behind them, the occasional angry shout.

The three R
shun stayed close together as they moved through the long chamber. The floor of polished wood echoed under the fall of their boots.

A white-robed priest scurried past an archway, some fifty feet ahead. He glanced at the intruders but did not stop. They heard a door shut behind him, a key rattling in its lock. They moved through the same archway.

There were two Acolytes posted here, each guarding a single door. They drew their swords as the R
shun appeared, but did not budge from where they stood.

‘Aléas,’ prompted his master.

Aléas lifted his crossbow, and hesitated for only a second. Once, twice he fired and each time took an Acolyte in the chest. They both fell in gasping heaps, clawing at the embedded bolts.

‘Keep moving,’ suggested Ash.

As they approached the next chamber, they saw masked Acolytes fanning out with pistols in their hands. The R
shun took cover on either side of the archway leading into the chamber. Baracha tore free his robe. Aléas knelt to place his crossbow on the floor, then lit a pouch of flash powder with a carefully struck match. Something was dripping on to the floor – blood, Aléas realized, from his own cheek.

He tossed the burning bag inside the chamber beyond and drew back, ramming fingers in his ears. The instant it exploded in a bang and a searing flash, Baracha and Ash rushed into the chamber, Aléas lumbering only a few strides behind.

A dozen Acolytes reeled blindly with their hands pressed to their ears.

Ash broke the spell, running with a sudden lunge and slash. His blade sang. It seemed to miss the Acolyte who faced him, but then the man’s head tilted backwards and toppled to the floor along with his hands, and the open stumps of his neck and wrists began to broadcast jets of blood which sprayed on to all of those nearby. A shot went off as Baracha cleaved a second man’s belly, the puff of smoke fading into a bitter reek as the white-robes began to cast aside pistols in exchange for their swords, swinging them wildly in the general direction of their assailants. Another shot rang out, the sound lost in the chaos of the fighting.

Ash worked his way into the centre of their opponents’ line, ducking and weaving, striking one and fending off another. Baracha moved behind him, covering their flanks by battering left and right. A white-robe lunged to pierce Baracha’s exposed side, a crimson handprint stamped above his heart as though for the perfect target marker. Aléas shot the man spinning him to the floor. His master failed to notice.

As the fighting intensified, Aléas glanced up over the heads of the combatants and noticed a flight of steps, and at the top of these steps a female Acolyte of middle age standing tall and unmasked as she reloaded a pistol.

Coolly, Aléas took aim with his second shot and fired straight at her chest.

The crossbow string snapped just as it released the bolt, the ends of the string flapping backwards as the bolt clattered futilely against the stone wall behind his target. She looked up, and flashed him a smile with a mouthful of dyed-red teeth.

Aléas struggled to reload the crossbow with the last remaining string, and followed, from his peripheral vision, the motions of the woman raising her pistol to fire at him.

He saw smoke then flame, and was struck on the side of the head, and staggered backwards, and fell. Blood gushed from his scalp. Lying shakily on his back, half stunned, air hissing through his teeth, Aléas still fumbled to reload.

The Acolytes, as if regaining their senses, converged on Ash and Baracha in a concerted counter-attack. Ash moved too fast to be surrounded; Baracha had a more difficult time, his blade being much heavier. He took a slash across the back which opened up his leather jerkin, and the skin immediately beneath it.

Baracha cried something in Alhazii and swung his sword around without looking, staving in his attacker’s ribs – where the blade stuck, forcing Baracha to pause in order to free it. The big man’s head flicked up, just in time to see another Acolyte’s sword sweeping down from above. It chopped through Baracha’s left wrist before striking the wooden floor and sticking fast.

Aléas wiped his eyes clear as he finally slotted the trembling string into place. His master was hollering in a great gust of rage and pain while his eyes fixed on his severed hand lying on the floor. Baracha hefted his sword with his other hand, and opened the Acolyte’s throat with it.

He went into a frenzy after that.

‘Aeos, Toomes, bullshorns,’ shouted the woman, still fumbling to reload her own weapon. ‘Flank and take the young one.’

Two Acolytes broke off from their engagements and headed towards him.

Aléas, still on the floor, pushed himself backwards as he hurried to place a bolt against the now-drawn string. He launched it into the stomach of his nearest attacker. The second jumped forward, and then Aléas was suddenly in his own battle, fending off blows with the unloaded crossbow. For a moment he panicked, as a slash knocked the weapon from his hands. Aléas rolled clear. He struggled to his feet, his load of equipment slowing him, and his balance all wrong. He drew his sword.

The Acolyte was good, but then so was Aléas. It was instinct that made him duck beneath one unexpected sweep; he came up with the point of his blade lunging at the man’s neck, which the Acolyte barely avoided. They were both panting hard, one in armour and the other weighted with equipment. Aléas was fitter, though. He swiped aside a riposte and stepped forward, cali style, his outstroke taking the man in the side. He twisted the blade. Slipped it out. Allowed the man to fall to the floor.