The Inner Circle: Holy Spirit (13 page)

Fes wheezed as she was dragged up to
the noose beside Briel. Their eyes met. They had no special powers,
no mystical abilities. Still they saw into each other’s minds.
There was no need for words. Words would’ve been deafeningly
insufficient. Briel tore his eyes away, the pain of her death
running deep. Across the crowd, Harundor jeered. There was the
bird, perched on a golden glove. That bird . . . Briel knew that
bird. Fes realised it sooner.

‘
Seeol!’ The scream
pierced the crowd as it erupted from Fes’s lips. Her voice failed
on her second attempt, so Briel took up her post and cried his plea
to the small owl. It didn’t matter why the creature was there. He
was their only hope.

‘
Seeol!’ Briel
bellowed a second time.

The hangman stared out over the crowd
as the king raised his hand. Seeol’s eyes locked on Briel’s, before
moving down to the rope around his neck. The feathers atop his head
flattened and the bird’s wings flared as he leapt into the air. The
king’s hand plummeted, giving the command. The hangman’s fingers
touched the lever. Seeol’s wings were a blur, his eyes wide in
horror. The hangman began to push the lever. The gallows creaked.
Seeol shrieked.

The elf owl dug his talons into the
hangman’s arm and bit his finger. The man howled in pain and threw
up his arms. He stumbled off-balance and fell backward, landing
atop his head on the hard-packed earth below. There was a loud
crack. Briel knew the man was dead.

‘
Let them go!’ Seeol
cried at the nearest guardsman.

The rope was removed and Briel stumbled
into his wife’s arms. The crowd cried out their disappointment as
the two stumbled down the steps and into the waiting arms of the
guards.

‘
Seeol,’ Briel began,
only to cry out as a clenched fist met with his jaw and abruptly
put an end to the likelihood of any further
communication.

‘
Don’t you speak to
the Holy Spirit, Sa’Tanist!’

‘
Let my friends go.’
Seeol scrabbled along Briel’s arm and wedged himself against the
man’s neck. ‘They is staying with me now and we can read
books.’

‘
As you say, Holy
Spirit,’ the guard replied with discontent. He was clearly
disappointed with Seeol’s orders and yet quite to Briel’s surprise,
he obeyed them.

‘
What’ve ye gotten ye
self into, ye silly bird?’ Briel asked of the little owl perched on
his shoulder.

‘
Didn’t you knows?’
Seeol dug his toes in excitedly and puffed out his chest with
pride. ‘I’m the Holy Spirit!’

*

His tent was the biggest. He was the
most important. He was supposed to be the strongest. Lately he
wasn’t so sure. Flies flew frantically about Far-a-mael’s head. It
was irritating. A cockroach scampered across the floor and made a
dive for his toe. He flicked the insect across the tent and turned
his attention back to the book in front of him.

His eyes rolled over a small
passage entitled, ‘Common Allergens.’ He could’ve spent time pawing
through the pages, but Far-a-mael already had most of its contents
memorised. There were very few allergies that he hadn’t suffered as
a boy. Most had cleared up with age. Others--such as Far-a-mael’s
intolerance to seafood--still plagued him to that day. It was his
most frequent ailment that was quite unlike anything he’d before
suffered.

After several months of becoming
increasingly ill, it came as little surprise to Far-a-mael when he
found a long-forgotten passage in the dusty old book. There he
discovered an allergy that fit his most recent symptoms. He was
allergic to resurrection. Those who suffered from the allergy
rejected resurrection and while they still came back to life, their
bodies went on behaving as though they were dead. As such,
Far-a-mael was decomposing.

His pallid hands left wet patches on
the table. His tent bore the odour of rotting flesh. There was a
worm burrowing its way through Far-a-mael’s arm. That was proof
enough of his fate, should he have required any further convincing.
His body was slowly but certainly rejecting Ilgrin’s
resurrection.

Far-a-mael was dying.

He didn’t fear death. He was, however,
disappointed by it. Far-a-mael sought to die a warrior after
slaying the last of the silts in the battlefields of Old World, not
as a breathing corps lying in a puddle of his own bodily
fluids.

The Elglair and the Setbranians were
weaker now in number than they’d been before. The Jenjen had been
stronger than anticipated and had made a serious dent in
Far-a-mael’s hadoan. He just couldn’t figure out why they hadn’t
continued their attack. Surely they’d have come out victorious. The
question often plagued Far-a-mael’s thoughts. Why not finish them
off? Why would they show mercy in their moment of conquest?

Far-a-mael exhaled slowly and put a
hand to his neck as he’d come to do habitually. He traced a line
over his throat where his head had once been detached. There were
no scars. The resurrection had gone seamlessly. He occasionally
still had dreams, but they were getting better. And Seeol. If
Far-a-mael ever had the misfortune of confronting him, he’d be sure
to put the bird out of his misery.

A glance at the tent opening told
Far-a-mael that My-ro-adin--one of the gil’hadoans--was coming to
see him. A slender line of shifting colours gave a taste of the
gil’s gloomy aura, snaking its way through the tent before the man
himself. Far-a-mael stood behind his desk and waited for the man to
enter, taking the same path as the light that went before him.

‘
May I speak with
you?’

‘
Take a seat.’
Far-a-mael thought it wise to sit down. Something had popped in one
of his knees and now the entire leg seemed shorter. He could
likewise feel liquid squirting internally, and was worried it’d
cause swelling. The Ways dimmed down and for a moment portions of
My-ro-adin’s aura became invisible. Such were the inconveniences
that came with being somewhat dead. ‘Well? What do you
want?’

‘
King Harundor has
sent a party of soldiers to speak with you.’ The man ran his eyes
along Far-a-mael’s tinted green flesh. ‘They’ve refused to give
details of their visit to anyone but you.’

‘
You sent them away,
yes?’

‘
No, War Elder
Far-a-mael.’ The man twitched nervously. ‘They have come as unarmed
messengers.’

Far-a-mael glared at the man, but then
changed his mind. ‘I suppose one may never have too much
information.’ He sighed, sitting back in his chair. ‘Send them in,
but before you go, have we heard anything back from Riverend?’

‘
Not yet, War Elder,’
My-ro-adin answered.

‘
And are the supply
chains keeping up. The men have to eat! We won’t get far with a
starved army.’

‘
Of course,’
My-ro-adin replied hesitantly. ‘We’re travelling slowly enough for
that reason.’ He put his nose in the air and went to leave with a
defined loftiness about his aura. Men like My-ro-adin were not used
to dealing with authority. He stopped at the exit and turned back
slowly. The gil kept a straight face, but his aura betrayed him,
swimming frantically and changing colours at a harried
pace.

‘
What is it?’
Far-a-mael grumbled.

‘
The men have raised
. . . concerns.’

‘
Oh?’

‘
They’re worried
about your health.’ My-ro-adin stood proud, but could not maintain
eye contact.

‘
I am quite well,’
Far-a-mael barked, throwing down his fists on the table
defensively. The sound was similar to that made by rotten fruit
that splits on landing. A brown liquid of bodily origins sprayed up
from the table and splattered the gil’hadoan’s face. The man
flinched, but was too taken aback to wipe his face.

‘
Get out,’ Far-a-mael
hissed with narrowed eyes.

A short while later two tired-eyed
Jenjen messengers entered Far-a-mael’s tent. They wore plain
clothes and nervous expressions.

‘
What have you to say
for yourselves?’

‘
You are War Elder
Far-a-mael?’ one of the men enquired.

‘
I am.’

‘
I’m Mister Smin,’
the man said nervously. ‘This is Mister Hirrald. We have been sent
by King Harundor in accordance with our guiding Holy
Spirit--blessed be His name--to propose an alliance with the
Elglair.’

‘
You’re joking?’
Far-a-mael burst out laughing, only to stop when he felt one of his
lungs sliding uncomfortably. ‘The Jenjen have never bothered to
keep their hatred for the Elglair a secret. Why the torrid do you
seek an alliance now?’

‘
Maker walks among us
in the form of His Holy Spirit,’ Mister Smin replied solemnly. ‘The
Holy Spirit has directed us to form an alliance with you so that we
may take over and destroy Old World together. We will not be strong
enough if our quarrelling continues.’

‘
Indeed.’ Far-a-mael
stroked his beard, his spirits lifting. ‘Your king is proposing
active involvement in this little war I’ve got planned?’

‘
Such an alliance
would only be withstanding as long as Old World remains a threat,’
Mister Smin clarified.

‘
Give me a reason to
trust you,’ Far-a-mael stated as he rose to his feet. ‘How can I
trust Harundor?’

‘
With all due
respect,’ Mister Smin began, ‘we could have destroyed you when you
attacked us. We did not.’

‘
All the same.’
Far-a-mael frowned. ‘I wish to speak with the king himself. Tell
him I’ve extended an invitation to dine with him at his palace next
week.’

‘
At his palace?’
Mister Hirrald asked nervously, speaking for the first time. ‘You
cannot invite yourself into the king’s residence.’

‘
Oh, well then.’
Far-a-mael sighed. ‘No alliance, I suppose.’

‘
Don’t be so quick to
make that decision.’ Mister Smin threw up his hands. ‘I’m sure
it’ll be fine. Someone will be sent to tell you a date and
time.’

‘
Good.’ Far-a-mael
smiled. ‘I look forward to seeing him.’

CHAPTER Nine

Demons

Ilgrin sat on a branch some fifty
strides above the earth with his feet dangling and his arm wrapped
around the trunk. The view should’ve taken his breath away, but
instead he stared at nothing. El-i-miir had told him to leave. Her
face had been flushed, tears flowing freely. She said she’d wanted
him to go to Old World alone. He just couldn’t figure out why she’d
changed her mind.

El-i-miir had become increasingly
distant over the preceding days and without her to talk to, not a
lot was said by anyone. Seteal didn’t speak, preferring instead to
stew in her own miseries. Ilgrin was left feeling rather alone. The
women were specks by the road below. They’d built a fire and sat
beside it in gloomy silence. They had a secret, but Ilgrin couldn’t
begin to guess what it might be. Even Seteal had taken to avoiding
eye contact. Perhaps he’d upset them somehow.

The three hadn’t travelled much
over the last few days. Given their present situation, they’d been
far too nervous to do so. The hadoan filled the landscape to the
south and with Veret to the north, they’d managed to wedge
themselves between two very formidable foes. They’d continued very
cautiously in the hopes of edging their way around Far-a-mael’s
army to continue south and reach Old World before him. But that
suddenly meant nothing. Now that El-i-miir wanted Ilgrin to go
alone, he could simply fly away whenever he saw fit. Nobody would
be able to stop him.

Stretching his wings, Ilgrin leapt from
the tree and flew low over the lightly wooded plains. He could
really only risk flying at night, but even then didn’t dare remain
airborne for very long. Ilgrin landed quietly, having decided to
make his way back by foot.

It took at least half an hour
before he was able to spot firelight flickering through the trees.
It seemed he’d flown farther than he’d realised. The trees had
increased in number, but every now and then he caught a glimpse of
yellow light and knew that he was close. When he slid out through
the tree-line, Ilgrin found himself in a small clearing with a fire
at its centre. Immediately he recognised his mistake. He and the
others had camped closer to the road.

Four men sat around the fire
warming their hands, but they were not the kind of men Ilgrin was
accustomed to seeing. He stared at their arching wings and couldn’t
help but gasp in recognition of his own kind.

‘
Maker,’ a silt
facing his direction gasped in astonishment. ‘It’s him!’

A gunshot pierced the night and tree
bark erupted into a sea of splinters beside Ilgrin’s head. He was
running . . . running until he found a place where the woods
thinned enough to fly. Bullets whistled through the air, shots
ringing to drown out the whoosh of beating wings. Three silts flew
above the trees and several more pursued from behind.

A woman screamed. El-i-miir was
running through the woods. A silt bore down on her. Ilgrin twisted
his wings painfully in alteration of his flight path. He snatched
at branches and swung around them, leaping between trees and diving
through the air. The silt below raked forward his feet to reveal
footwear bearing sharp metal talons. Ilgrin was under no illusions
as to what the talons were intended for: tearing human
flesh.