Beyond the Wall of Time Read online

  Did this mean, then, that Torve would no longer be considered a man? Of a certainty, Kannwar had replied to her anxious question. Eunuchs had formed a third class of people, not as low as women but lower than men, considered ideal for bureaucratic work because of their serene emotional state. Lenares had questioned this. She would have been anything but serene had she lost a part of herself like that, but Kannwar assured her that the removal of the penis and testicles—the first time she’d heard a man’s thingy given such names—removed the strength and passion that made a man a man, sinking him into a life directed by the mind rather than the glands.

  Lenares thought this would be rather an improvement for most of the men she had known, but was careful not to say so.

  “Can a castrated man still love?” she had asked, trying and failing to keep the hope out of her voice.

  Stella had looked on with pity in her lovely eyes as Kannwar had all but mocked her with his reply. He’d ridiculed the idea of a eunuch being capable of love. “What, dear girl, could he love a woman with? Why would such a man want to become involved with a woman when they have nothing to offer each other? No, love takes passion, and passion has been sliced away from the eunuch.”

  What, then, of the eunuch’s future?

  Magnanimously, Kannwar offered to take Torve into his employ. “He seems a bright enough fellow,” the Undying Man had said, seemingly unaware of, or perhaps impervious to, the distress his comments were causing. Ignoring the disaster that had been Torve’s life serving the previous tyrant.

  He’s wrong, Lenares had thought then, and thought now. The Undying Man is wrong. Torve is still a man, is still capable of emotion, of passion, of love. His years with the cruel Emperor of Elamaq had crippled him far more severely than the loss of a flappy bit of skin, yet he had revealed passion hidden in the depths of a scarred character. Surely he would still love her.

  But what worried her was the possibility that Torve might believe of himself what Kannwar had said. That he might simply give up loving her and leave her alone.

  The nine remaining travellers were accompanied by perhaps a hundred of those they had rescued from Corata Pit, straggling in a long line behind them. Most of the survivors had departed in various directions to seek out family and friends or to recover what they could from their towns and villages; these hundred who remained were, in the main, too frightened to leave the shelter of the powerful magicians in case the god-storm—or something worse—returned.

  They surmounted a low ridge and came to an involuntary halt as the spectacle of the Malayu Basin spread out before them. Directly ahead the land fell away to a vast level plain, a chequerboard of fields and forests fading into the distance, dotted with animals, everything painted golden in the soft morning light. But many of the animals were motionless, heaped together in the middle of green fields, others lying alone where they had fallen. And the trees of the forests were strewn about as though harvested by a scythe wielded by a blind and careless giant. To their right, in the west, the sea glimmered, the wide curve of Malayu Bay looking like a rough bite out of the land. Closer to hand a village lay athwart the path they trod, some distance down the slope, but even at a distance they could see that not one roof remained intact and many of the houses had been blown or shaken to pieces.

  The travellers were drawn to the village like flies to a carcass, and as they picked their way along the narrow path between piles of debris, they looked in vain for someone alive. Bodies they saw aplenty, but no movement.

  “Just how fierce was this storm and earthquake?” Mustar asked, shaking his head in sorrow.

  Lenares knew. Fierce enough to extinguish thousands of lives. The hole in the world had grown rapidly, and was perhaps now already wide enough to admit the gods on a permanent basis. The void beyond the wall was leaking into the world, meaning that time itself had begun to lose its grip. Everywhere she looked Lenares could see severed threads, vanished nodes.

  The world was unravelling.

  “They have killed my subjects,” said the Undying Man, and Lenares flinched at the tone of his voice. The Emperor of Elamaq had frightened her, but not as much as this man did.

  “They have killed my subjects,” he repeated, “and destroyed my land. They are fools and tyrants, and I will destroy them.”

  Stella put a hand on his elbow. “We, Kannwar. We will rid the world of them. The Most High has called us all together for this purpose, remember? This is not just your fight.”

  “Oh?” he said, and as he turned to her, his face, limbs and body began to elongate as he struggled to retain control of his illusion. His voice emerged from his lips like a ghost from a grave. “Whose land is this, Queen Stella? Are you able to look me in the eye and tell me that were this happening in fair Faltha, and were you to look down from Fealty on the devastation of the Central Plains and the ruins of Instruere, you would not feel as I feel? That you would not vow as I have vowed? Can you? Can you tell me that?”

  “No,” she said. “I would react the same way you have.” She licked her lips. “But I would be wrong.”

  “Your caution is why an unruly gaggle of priests rules your land in your stead.”

  Her eyes flashed. “And your folly is why Husk likely sits in your throne room while you lament the loss of your citizens.”

  “Ah, Stella, could you ever doubt why I love you?” Kannwar said, his lips curling into a smile. “I fell in love with your tongue before any other part of you.”

  “You did nothing of the sort,” she snapped, really angry now. “You were intrigued by the aroma of the Most High set in me, and held me against my will while you plotted to harness it. Don’t play the lovable cad with me. I remember what you were, and what you did. I heard what you said to Lenares this afternoon. You were an evil man seventy years ago, and I fail to see any evidence you have changed since.”

  She took a series of swift strides away from him and disappeared down a side street. After a few moments Robal followed her, just as Lenares knew he would. Kannwar stared after her, expressionless.

  “What is the name of this town?” she asked the Lord of Bhrudwo, as much to fill the awkward silence as anything. As she asked, she realised this was a very human thing to do. She was becoming like them.

  “Mensaya,” he replied gruffly. “Though, as there is no one left alive, it is a town no more. I doubt its name will be remembered in future by anyone but me.”

  There seemed a deep sadness in his voice, and Lenares wondered about the man. How can a man so steeped in evil display such compassion?

  The travellers spent an hour or so gathering food in the village. It was risky work and they had to choose with care the buildings they entered. More than one house groaned and settled lower while one or another of the group fossicked around inside, but no one suffered injury apart from Tumar, who ended up with a nail in his foot. Lenares saw many dead people, most with fear etched permanently on their faces. They didn’t have to die, she told herself. I must be able to do something about this.

  Perhaps you can, a familiar voice whispered. But first you must talk to the Omeran. He is the key.

  “Mahudia?” But the voice had withdrawn, all hint of her presence erased, and within moments it seemed a product of her wandering mind. Hah, she thought. Rouza always told me I had no imagination.

  Yet the voice—or her imagination—was right. She and Torve needed to have words.

  Stoneheart. Stoneheart. Torve repeated the word in his mind as though pounding a rock into his own temple.

  Torve Stoneheart. His stone heart clenched a little at the repetition, but only a little.

  With one stroke the Emperor had cut him away from the world of men, a world of companionship and respect to which he had only just been allowed entry. Once again he had been rendered something other, a mere animal, even less than an animal. Lenares had little to do with him these days, a clear sign she was unable to face what he had become.

  Yet there was still a great deal to be thankful f
or, foremost amongst the list being the death of the Emperor. The horrors of his obscene research were finally over. Torve thought of the last time he had walked through a devastated town: Raceme had been severely damaged by whirlwinds and the Emperor had taken advantage of the confusion by seeking out victims trapped in the wreckage and torturing them to death in his insane quest for immortality. Torve had been forced by his inbred obedience to do dreadful things and he would never be rid of the feel of flesh under his fingers, nor the memory of the indignity of the human body involuntarily revealed. So many things burned in his mind: the fear and the pleading of his victims, the implacability of his master, the light going out in the eyes of the newly dead.

  And yet… his only friend was dead, the man he had hated and loved, and Torve’s grief threatened to obliterate every other feeling in his confused heart. How could he grieve for such a butcher? But how could he fail to lament the loss of his other half, his only childhood friend? And whom could he talk to? Now his companions knew something of his master—though by no means all of it—they would not understand his feelings.

  Torve was not sure he understood them himself.

  Preoccupied with his thoughts, he found himself at the lower end of the village, where the last houses—or what until yesterday had been houses—gave way to pasture. The stink of dead animals wafted across from the fields. He’d always been sensitive to smell and doubted the others would be too troubled by it.

  “Whaddaya doing here, mister?” piped a small voice.

  A lifetime of control over his body prevented the Omeran from jumping with fright. Slowly, carefully, he turned to face what might be a deadly adversary.

  It was a little girl. She stood in the doorway of the last house on the street, her pink dress ragged and torn, smeared with blood and dirt. The house behind her had partially collapsed, but it had survived the storm and earthquake with at least two rooms intact.

  “Ma says everybody’s asleep,” said the girl, scowling at him. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

  “Because I’m hungry and looking for food,” Torve said to her, squatting on his haunches the better to look her in the face. She had a nasty bruise above one eye, and one of her arms hung awkwardly at her side. Sprained at the least. “Do you have any food?”

  “We already ate all the food. Some of it smelled funny. Pa was sick all night.”

  “How many of you are there?”

  The girl blinked a couple of times as she looked into his eyes, clearly unable to give him a number. That many?

  “Can I come in and meet your ma and pa?” Torve asked.

  “No, they’re asleep,” said the girl, and turned away.

  “Asleep? Do you mean sleeping, or dead?” Torve couldn’t think of any tactful way of asking the question.

  The girl gave him no answer, having been swallowed by the shadows. Torve followed her inside, once again thankful that his master was gone. He could not bear to think what the Emperor might have done to the little girl if she was indeed on her own.

  The air was warm and close in the dark interior. The girl stood in one corner, tugging on the shirt of a figure lying prone on the floor. “Pa, Pa, wake up,” she said.

  “Leave him be, Py,” came a woman’s weary voice from deep in the shadows. “He needs his sleep.”

  “But there’s a man. A black man. He smells like poo.”

  “I’m afraid she’s right,” Torve said, peering into the darkness. “I’m sorry to come unannounced into your house, but I’m looking for food.”

  “We have none,” said the woman. “But we have swords and knives. Go away before we use them.”

  A series of small noises issued from all around the room. The people probably thought they were being quiet, but Torve could identify eight of them by their movement.

  “As you wish,” he said, backing away. “I didn’t mean to trouble anyone from this village.”

  “We’re not from this village,” said the little girl. “We’re from a boat. Our boat crashed.”

  “Away with you, stranger,” a man said. “Go try your luck somewhere else.”

  “Very well.” Torve repeated his acquiescence. “Please do not be concerned. I am leaving.”

  “No need for that,” said another voice, a voice he recognised. “Come in and sit down, Torve.”

  “You know him?” said two or three from the shadows.

  It took the Omeran a few moments to place the voice. “Kilfor?” he asked, trying to see the speaker.

  “Aye, and his father,” growled another familiar voice. “Sit on this bench, lad. Shove over, Kilfor.”

  “You shove over, old man. Your backside’s wide enough to make space for three people.”

  Sauxa grunted, but moved over enough for Torve to perch on the end of the bench.

  “I thought you’d left us,” Torve began, unsure of the reception his words would win him. “You objected to assisting Heredrew in his intention of bringing down the gods.”

  “Call him by his real name, boy,” Sauxa said. “Call him Kannwar, ulcers to his soul, and name the devil. Call him the Undying Man, the great enemy of Faltha. Let us have no soft talk, no hidden identities and agendas. He’s the Destroyer, and that’s that.”

  “Is it true?” a woman asked. “Is Lord Sauxa telling the truth? Are you really travelling with the Undying Man?”

  “Yes, ma damme, we are.” Lord Sauxa?

  “What will he do to put all this to rights?” she asked him. “We survived a great storm at sea and were helped from our ship by these two men, only to be assailed by an earthquake and a great wave from the sea. This is not right! This is not natural! Everyone knows this! Something magical is happening. Someone is assaulting our fair country, and we wish to offer our great Lord of Bhrudwo any support he requires.”

  Torve turned to the man sitting beside him. “You saved these people from a shipwreck?”

  “Not really,” Kilfor said. “They were trapped in their cabin, and when we came across them they may have been in some danger from rising water, but I don’t think they would have died.”

  “Course they would have,” his father exclaimed. “Even if the tide hadn’t got ’em, the great waves would have. We broke in through the hull and let ’em out. Heroes, that’s us.” The man’s eyebrows waggled in self-congratulation.

  “You’re a fool, old man,” Kilfor said genially. “Or should I say, you’re a fool, Lord Sauxa. All we did was let them out.”

  Torve smiled, then turned to the woman. “The Lord of Bhrudwo is already searching for those responsible, ma damme. He is in this village as we speak.”

  “Here?” a couple of the men exclaimed. “He is here now?” Torve could not see their faces in the gloom, but they did not sound entirely happy.

  “Ah… perhaps the Lord of Bhrudwo does not need our help if he has such great men as Lord Sauxa and his son to aid him,” the voluble woman said after a noticeable pause. “We’ll just remain here, out of his way. Perhaps we could tidy up the village after he leaves. Do you think he would object if we settled here for a time?”

  “I cannot answer for him,” Torve began.

  “But I can,” said Heredrew as he stepped through the door and stood in the middle of the room, bringing his own light with him. Everyone gasped, and the Bhrudwans cowered on the floor.

  “The great enemy of Faltha?” Heredrew said, his voice gentle.

  “You might be old, but your hearing’s good,” Sauxa said, unabashed.

  “I won’t be ridiculed in front of my subjects,” Heredrew said, not so gently. The magical light pulsed around him.

  “Then stop being ridiculous,” Sauxa snapped. “These people have asked you a question. If you heard my insults, you heard the question. So, great lord, what’s your answer?”

  The shipwreck victims looked from the bright figure to the belligerent old man facing him down, and Torve could see them reassessing their view of “Lord” Sauxa. Perhaps they now saw him as a great magician, a trusted companion,
maybe even a rival to the Undying Man.

  “You are right, my friend,” Heredrew said, clapping the surprised Sauxa on the shoulder, then addressing the others. “I owe my loyal and sorely tried subjects an answer. It would ease my mind greatly if you would make your home here, temporarily at least, until you feel able to travel back to your true homes. Only two things would I ask of you: to render assistance to anyone left alive, and to bury the dead with all ceremony. Is this acceptable to you?”

  Self-conscious shuffles and awed mumblings of assent were offered in answer.

  “Easy to lord it over such a spineless bunch,” Sauxa muttered to his son. Heredrew flared even brighter in response, but held his temper.

  “Very well then,” said the Lord of Bhrudwo. “I will leave an imprint of my seal in the town. Should anyone challenge my agreement with you, show them the seal. In the meantime, Torve, Lenares is looking for you. Are you coming with us?”

  “Beg pardon, great lord,” said one of the men in the shadows. “There is someone in this room hiding from you. He threatened to kill anyone who betrayed him.”

  Heredrew spread his light even further, illuminating the whole room. “Really? Who is this person?”

  “Him, lord,” said a woman, pushing at the shoulder of an older man who sat hunched over, head buried in his arms. “He’s the captain of our ship. He ran it aground, and he didn’t behave like a sea captain ought.”

  “Carry on,” said the Lord of Bhrudwo.

  “Locked us in our cabin, he did,” said another man. “Told us he didn’t care if we lived or died. Then, when the ship beached, he refused to come to our aid though we pounded on the door and begged him for help, while all around us the ship creaked and groaned fit to bust. ’Twas only these gentlemen saved us from the death he’d left us to suffer.”

  “Does this captain have a name?”

  The hunched man did not reply, and refused to raise his head.

  “His name is Kidson, great lord. Captain Kidson. Though he’s no captain now.”