This is part four of this story, adapted from an on-going
play-by-forum session of Numenera. If you haven't already, you'll want
to start with part one before you read this installment. If you've read the rest of the story already but it's been a
while, no worries—there's a brief recap montage thingy
at the start of this installment. Enjoy!
For important disclaimers and whatnot please see the Tears of the Gods table of contents page.
***
Previously in "Tears of the Gods"
From another cage a voice grated bitterly, "Perform? Yes, perform. You are here to fight and die for the pleasure of the crowd of citizens. How do you think the King maintains order? He gives the crowds what the crowds want: a slice-and-dice orgy of blood."
The elevator’s doors swung open upon a sumptuously furnished sitting room, softly lit by a glowing globe hanging from the high ceiling.
Frater Bellias gazed out the windows at the storm. "Your questions are not what I expected. Killing? How can I answer that in the Truth? I am not telling you to kill anyone or anything that is not necessary. The plan has been worked out so that nothing can go wrong."
The grey-cloaked woman side-stepped to cut Syrus off. She snarled in a low voice, "Next time we meet, pray to your Amber Pope that you remember. Meanwhile, remember this!"
The communicator was swiftly turning to black crud that flaked and crumbled away between YimouZha's fingers. For a brief instant the item had touched Ooro’s mind.
Liem's eyes turned to the road east. "When I reached Jaston, I started hearing whispers that Toorkman and his foul band of outlaws had been seen in the area."
"The finger was cut with a sharp instrument, probably a knife," Kiraz continued. "Done within the last 28 hours or so, I think."
***
Date: 9th Fre in the 401st Year of the Founding
YimouZha
YimouZha turned his enormous single eye toward the gloriously blazing sun. "How well you remind us of your might. May the saplings and all plant-forms thrive under your strength."
He heard Gormin scoff behind him. He ignored it and continued down the path. He whispered to the gnarled staff in his hand. "Ah, Seed-Brother, who knew we would ever get this far from home? But we have so much further to go."
By mid-morning though, even YimouZha was struggling under the sun's might. A light breeze blew in from the sea far below them, but it did little to relieve the smothering heat.
As they trudged forward along the cliff's edge, YimouZha gradually became aware of a barely perceptible singing sound coming from somewhere ahead, like thousands of voices whispering a faint song, a melody without words. He realized he was gently swaying to the strange music. How long has it been playing?
"Very strange. Are you hearing this?" YimouZha asked the others. "I've heard of sea-plants that emanate music-like tones, but never anything like this."
They crested a short rise and the source of the otherworldly music became visible. Not far ahead, on the edge of the cliff and blocking the narrow path, lay a clump of shining spheres of various sizes, none much larger than YimouZha's giant eye. They shimmered, transparent and iridescent, not unlike soap bubbles. As the breeze caressed them, a shivering pattern of colours rippled across their surface and they emitted another round of the strange, unearthly singing. The rippling colours and sounds were hauntingly, achingly beautiful, evoking in YimouZha cherished memories of his forest home, when the air was cleaner, the sky was cleaner, and life was cleaner.
Gormin growled aggressively. "Great. If it isn't one thing, it's another." He glanced behind him, then drew his sword and advanced on the bubbles. "Not enough these stupid things gotta block our path—they gotta make an infernal racket too."
Sunlight streamed from YimouZha's eye as he began a Scan esotery. "Light of the sun, reveal what is hidden." But the light of his Scan revealed nothing—the bubbles did not exist. Yet he could see and hear their exquisite beauty quite plainly. He began to think he could sit and listen to it forever. Indeed, had he not? When had he ever not heard this music? He became dimly aware of Gormin and Syrus shouting something. He wished they would shut up.
A rock struck the bubbles.
With a sigh like a million tiny shards of glass breaking, the entire clump shattered and vanished into the air. YimouZha closed his eye as the last of the glittering, hair-like shards winked out of existence. He sighed. A thing of great beauty has gone from the world.
After a few moments, Tempus broke the silence. "It was necessary."
There was no more breeze. The group pressed on under the Fre sun's radiance.
***
Gormin
Gormin was not happy about heading away from the coast. But the cliff road was washed out ahead—nothing for it but to backtrack and take a side-trail to the southeast.
After some time, the trail crossed a stream, now reduced to a muddy trickle under the Fre sun's oppression. Iron Wind blast it all, thought Gormin. Cold water would've been nice. Beyond the stream, sullen gallen grazed here and there amid cultivated pastures, apparently unattended. Ahead in the distance, Gormin could make out a round cottage with a pointed thatch roof, with a cluster of smaller outbuildings around it. A heavy trail of smoke rose from one of the smaller buildings.
The heat was taking its toll on him. Even the effort of speaking was almost not worth the bother. "Strange they need a fire going. Maybe it's a blacksmithy. Suppose we could ask for directions to Fallside. But probably too early to stop here for the night. Not even wane yet." Gormin gritted his teeth. I sound like Syrus now.
As if on cue, Syrus spoke up. "F- fire seems odd... approach?"
Gormin squinted through the sweat dripping from his hairless eyebrows. The smoke was dark and heavy—too heavy. He scanned the farm buildings and fields. Aside from the gallen, he saw no signs of movement. "Yeah, you're right. That's no hearth fire. Let's check it out. If we're lucky, it's abhuman bandits burning down some crofter's outhouse and he'll pay us to fight them off." He attempted a grin, but the heat and those infernal bubbles had put him in a sour mood.
Kiraz nodded. "We should definitely investigate. The worst thing that could happen is that we don't need to help anyone."
There are far worse possibilities than that, Gormin thought, but he was tired of talking.
Approaching the house, it became clear that foul play was afoot. The door had been kicked open and one of the windows broken. The smoke from the burning outbuilding drifted over the group; it smelled of burning wood and charred meat. They set the smokehouse on fire. Barbarians.
Sprawled before the broken door were four bodies: a man, a woman and two female children, all dead. The woman and children had their throats cut from ear to ear; the man's head was bludgeoned in and his shirt ripped open.
On all four, the ring finger of the left hand was missing—severed.
YimouZha examined the children. "Ah... such cruelty. Is the finger that has been removed the same one as at the rest shelter? Who did this?" He looked round. "Do you think their attackers are nearby? It would be wise to avoid them. I do not think it would be worth seeking... what is that word? Revenge. No. We should leave and continue our journey."
Kiraz pushed aside the man's ruined shirt with the point of her verred, exposing a thin tracery of thread-like burns on his skin. "What would cause these?"
Gormin stepped forward and peered at the web-like pattern of burns. A white-hot spider dancing a jig on him, maybe? Gormin looked behind them, searching for enemies. The gallen in the fields did not seem particularly frightened, just listless in the heat. Whoever or whatever did this is almost certainly long gone.
But the burns reminded him of something. "Those burns look similar to the rope-like burns Frater Bellias had on his hand. And the prisoner in the other cage underneath the arena had the same condition, more advanced. Perhaps it isn't really a burn, but a disease, and if it's a disease, it might still be catchable from these bodies or from their possessions inside. And this family may have been killed by their lord or other lawful authority to stop its spread. Either way, I'm not inclined to stick around lest we meet the same fate. It shouldn't be hard to find our way back to the coast and then to Fallside. Let's go."
Gormin turned to go, but the others lingered, still looking at the corpses. He sighed and turned back.
"There is nothing further to be gained here, and we risk much by staying. This world is full of wonders and terrors beyond the ken of humans. If we stop to investigate every anomaly until it's explained to the satisfaction of our curiosity, we will never finish this mission. We do want to continue the mission, yes? I am open to suggestions if someone wants to do something different, but fooling around with possibly diseased corpses is not something I am inclined to do. I'm no hero, and even if I were, these unfortunates are beyond my help now. Let's get out of here."
No more eloquent speeches today, he vowed. He turned and stalked off to the northeast.
***
Lameth
Lameth woke suddenly. Must have dozed off. He was still seated at the octagonal table.
He could sense a group of people approaching the travellers' rest; that must have been what woke him. He touched the side of his forehead and reached out to the group telepathically.
This is my rest... If you come in peace you can enter and refresh yourselves also, but if you come with foul intentions, stay away. I'm not looking for a fight, but if you leave me no choice I will take at least one or two with me.
Lameth stood and moved to the octagonal window. The approaching group was dimly visible below in the dying light of ebb—five of them, armed, plus an aneen. He bit his lip. It was five to one, but he did have a trick up his sleeve—a paralysis-ray cypher in the form of a contact lens in his left eye. It had only one shot, but it might help to even the odds a bit if it came to a fight—just take out the most powerful-looking one.
A thought came back via the telepathic link. We come to rest for the evening and do not wish to fight. With what we have seen today, we are being cautious.
Lameth released his breath and replied. Ok, feel free to enter and rest. There's plenty of food and water up here. I hope you don't mind if you and your companions rest in a different corner of the tower at night? Well, maybe if we get to know each other we could travel together... Where are you heading? And how big is your group?
We are five in number and are headed for Fallside.
Lameth sensed his interlocutor was a human woman. He could feel no dishonesty on her part. Why in the Ninth World would someone be interested in going to that town? What kind of business do you have there?
Why we travel to Fallside is better explained in-person. It is a long story.
Come inside, then.
The strangers shuffled into Lameth's tower.
A strange, tree-like being introduced itself as YimouZha. It carried a gnarled wooden staff in its hand and wore a homespun robe to which a metallic orange-and-black scarab clung. "And how did you arrive here?" the tree-creature asked.
Lameth spoke with his natural voice. "I'm Lameth and I'm currently heading for the City of Bridges. Actually, I have no real destination—I'm just looking for some adventure. You said something about Fallside; what are you up to? I just came from there... A strange town and even stranger people."
The ugliest man Lameth had ever seen answered his question.
"We are heading to Fallside to deliver a message on behalf of the Aeon Priests. If you're looking for adventure, you can come along. We could use a telepath, as many of the people connected to this mission have been acting suspiciously from the start. As for you, wandering around out here alone may not be safe—we just came from a farmstead where the family was massacred by persons unknown. The killers' tracks led to somewhere in this general vicinity. After we deliver the message, we plan to return to the City immediately, so if you accompany us, it should only be a day or two diversion. I'm Gormin, by the way. I would crack a joke to break the ice, but I am far too tired."
Gormin's voice was nearly as rough as his face. Lameth wondered what was wrong with him, but it seemed impertinent to ask, so he didn't.
Introductions were made all round, and the group of five retired to the room opposite Lameth's.
Lameth returned to the window and looked out into the night. He could sense the four minds in the next room and the one below keeping watch—the time-traveller, Tempus. Dimly, he could also sense the aneen in the first-floor stable, but animal minds were much more difficult for him to get a read on. Lameth leaned his forehead against the octagonal stronglass pane; he found it hard to sleep around strangers due to their unfamiliar psyches.
Around midnight, the sky was lit by flashes of lightning as a storm rolled in from the sea. After some time, it passed on further inland, leaving the air noticeably cooler.
Lameth decided the strange group was trustworthy. A telepath's instincts were rarely wrong.
***
Date: 10th Fre in the 401st Year of the Founding
At about midday, the town of Fallside came into view, perched on the cliff-edge and stretching a little ways inland.
A vaguely oval-shaped metal building bristling with hatches, pipes, tubes, and chutes dominated the village from its precarious seat at the very edge of the cliff—the factory. Streams of smoke rose from chimneys of various sizes and shapes on its flat roof. From the side of the building, a spillway extended westwards and downwards to the ocean. Green and red sludge dribbled down the spillway toward the water, mixing together as it went. Lameth frowned. Was that right? Had that been happening before? Clustered around the factory were little round houses with thatch roofs. Aside from a handful of neutral grey buildings, the homes to the north were painted red; the ones to the south, green. No one seemed to be walking around outside.
Lameth could sense Gormin's puzzlement before he spoke. "They dump the sludge in the ocean? How strange. Is the sludge a byproduct of whatever it is they really produce?"
Lameth shook his head, forgetting to use his natural voice. Something is wrong. Yesterday, this place was a hive of activity, with red and green workers changing shifts every few hours.
They reached the outskirts of the town. A strong stench of rotting fish filled the air. The smell hadn't been there yesterday.
"Look." That was Kiraz. Lameth looked: blobs and smears of transparent slime were everywhere, and the ground was crisscrossed by deep grooves. Look like drag marks. The group spread out and advanced cautiously into the village.
There were bodies.
Some lay behind walls, some in the alleyways between the buildings, some wedged in doorways. Most appeared to be trying to brace themselves in place. All were missing their heads, which seemed to have been pulled or sucked off.
"The people of Fallside have clearly lost their minds," said Tempus. "The curious thing is that they seem to have lost them physically, not metaphorically, and with a great deal of force. We should try and locate Neymich and deliver the message. And withdraw quickly before we lose our minds too."
Kiraz and Syrus nodded agreement. "Yes, m- message delivery," said Syrus. He smiled sardonically. "We n- need to keep about us our heads."
Gormin sniffed. "Perhaps one of the factions massacred the other. Such is the nature of factions. If so, it's their business, not ours. Lameth, do you know where Frater Neymich resides? Probably wears an orange robe and is remarkably useless."
Lameth turned a bit to the left and gestured. "Up behind there is where he lives, or by the looks of things... maybe lived?"
Lameth drew his dagger and led the way. Far above, a great geyser of steam shot from one of the factory's chimneys.
Lameth sensed others ahead. The group rounded the corner of Neymich's neighbor's house. By Neymich's front door were three people. One sat on the ground eating a smoked gallen drumstick; two leaned against the wall: a lanky, bearded male and a green-skinned female. They were talking casually and smiling.
YimouZha strode directly up to the strangers, eye-stalk raised high and offering the hand of greeting.
The green woman caught sight of YimouZha and stepped away from the wall. She was lithe and athletic, with tightly braided hair, but had no obvious armour or weapon. "A golthiar!" she exclaimed. "How wonderful. I love your kind: you get driven to do a quest and leave plenty of rich pickings in your wake. But there is nothing for you here. We were here first. Sorry." She gestured mock-apologetically. Lameth noted that she was missing her left ring finger.
"Pytha." The seated man gestured with his half-eaten drumstick at the rest of the group. "There are others." He had a shaven head with a metal stud the size of a fist protruding from the centre of his forehead. Gallen juice dripped down his chin. He also was missing the ring finger on his left hand.
"Iadace!" said YimouZha. "We are not concerned with who was here first. We are here to deliver a message to Frater Neymich, and then we will head back. Is he here? When we're gone you can continue with... whatever it is you're doing."
Pytha eyed YimouZha up and down, eyes glowing. Lameth could feel the greed rolling off her psyche like a wave.
"A message, you say? Would that be concerning the Tears of the Gods? If it is, we would be very interested. Hand it over, and then you can... head back."
The two men chuckled.
Kiraz stepped forward. "Nay, we need to deliver the message to Frater Neymich. We do not wish any arguments." She dropped a hand to the verred at her hip.
Lameth stepped between the group and the three strangers, hoping to deescalate. "Please don't even try, Pytha, we don't want bloodshed here. Why cross weapons over a simple message? We should try to find out what happened to this village. Besides that, you are outnumb-"
He broke off as he realized that the strangers were not actually outnumbered. He sensed more psyches in the house, more behind the group, and more... above? He turned. On the factory roof. He silently cursed himself; the terrible smell and the strangeness of the situation had distracted him.
"The priest... is busy at the moment," purred Pytha. Now face-to-face, Lameth could see she had yellow eyes with vertical slits. Her skin was scaled like a reptile's.
The man with the stud spat out a piece of bone. He laughed and rose to his feet.
"However," Pytha continued languidly, "if you want to talk, we can talk. Perhaps just you and I? Somewhere quiet? After all, we're just passing through and are in no particular hurry. What do you say, big boy?"
He didn't need his psychic abilities to tell him that would not be a good idea. He forced a smile to his face. "We... don't need to go anywhere to talk privately."
An agonized shriek came from inside the house.
The bearded man grinned at the studded gallen-eater. "Pay up, Besc. I said the old fool wouldn’t keep his mouth shut." The bearded man had greasy reddish hair and a long beard that forked into three loose braids. He also was missing his ring finger.
Another shriek cut through the air.
Gormin wordlessly charged into the house, sword and shield suddenly in hand.
His reaction seemed to have taken them all by surprise. "Toorkman!" Pytha shouted. "Couldn’t stop him getting in! There are others!" She smiled at Lameth and hissed menacingly. "But nothing we can’t handle. We could have been such friends."
She lashed out with both arms at Lameth, blindingly fast. But Lameth sensed it coming and twisted out of the way.
A bolt of sunlight struck the wall behind Pytha.
Besc cast aside his gallen meat. "I've got this." His metal stud sparked and crackled—purple lightning leapt out from it at someone behind Lameth. He heard YimouZha cry out.
No time to worry about that now. He circled around Pytha, seeking an opening. Suddenly Syrus' whip snaked out, wrapping itself around Pytha's neck—Syrus yanked hard, pulling her off balance. From nowhere, Kiraz darted forward and sank her verred in Pytha's kidney.
And just like that, Pytha was down.
Besc didn't take it well. "Pytha! No!" Besc jerked his upper body forward, ejecting the stud from his head. The metal sphere bounced at Kiraz' feet.
It exploded in a blaze of bluish-purple force.
Lameth reeled, trying to blink away the spots before his eyes.
Crossbow bolts rained down, coming from the direction of the factory. One lodged itself in the roof of Neymich's house. Another struck the ground near Lameth's feet.
Disoriented and ears ringing, Lameth ran unsteadily into the house. Gormin was facing off alone against three more attackers. Tied to a bench was an unconscious older man in a torn orange robe—that has to be Neymich.
One of the attackers was a woman in a black tunic and leggings with more than half her face disfigured into a huge blistered mass of raw flesh. A few stringy strands of black hair clung to her scalp. She had a bleeding gash over her right eye that Gormin must have put there.
The second attacker was a helmeted middle-aged man in brigandine armor, holding a poleaxe defensively across his chest. He was using his whole body to shield the third attacker from Gormin.
From behind his human shield, the third attacker was extending a wickedly complex numenera device forward, trying to get a good angle on Gormin. He mashed an awkwardly positioned thumb-button on its makeshift-looking handle. A bright purple beam lanced out from the device, but either he had poor aim or Gormin had good defensive instincts—it missed.
That must be Toorkman. Lameth remembered his paralysis cypher. With a thought, he activated it. Toorkman was instantly surrounded by a shimmering field of ruby-red energy, muscles locked. He fell awkwardly at the ugly woman's feet, the complex device slipping from his involuntarily clenched fist.
The woman spoke. "Calaval’s eyes! I haven’t been paid yet. You," jerking her chin at Gormin, "are as fierce as a cragworm. I like that. Still, time to go."
She dropped to one knee and snatched another, smaller device from Toorkman's belt. Before Lameth could react, she was gone, vanished.
The remaining bandit raised his voice. "Besc! Ysin! Toorkman is down and the bitch has gone. I will do my sworn duty!" He then addressed Gormin and Lameth more formally. "I am Psolir; my family have served House Mantir for generations. I am sworn to defend Toorkman of House Mantir to the death, and I shall discharge my duty."
Psolir jabbed his poleaxe at Gormin, which he deflected with his shield.
"Noble words for a common bandit." Gormin circled left, trying to force Psolir to turn his back to Lameth.
"Noble words indeed, and meant."
Lameth heard a shout from outside. "Ten out here! Needful help!" Syrus.
Gormin shouted back. "Stand fast! Almost done in here!"
Lameth sensed the exact moment of Gormin's strike. He lunged in low with his dagger as Gormin slashed high. Psolir hesitated between blocking the two strikes a moment too long and blocked neither. Lameth's dagger entered his side just as Gormin's backsword cut his throat. His lifeless body sprawled atop Toorkman.
***
Gormin
Gormin went through the last of the dead bandits' pockets. It was slim pickings. The cowards had broken and run when their leader went down, despite still having a numbers advantage—most of them had escaped. Every escaped bandit was a bandit with shins still in his pockets, curse them all. At least Besc didn't get away. The latter lay face down in the dust, a crossbow quarrel still sticking up from the back of his neck.
Gormin returned to the house. Toorkman was sitting upright now on the house's dirt floor, though still tightly tied up. He was wearing fancy nobleman finery, but stolen used clothes were difficult to find buyers for so Gormin hadn't bothered to strip him naked. His nine rings—one for each finger, less the missing left ring finger—were a different story.
Tempus and YimouZha were still tending to Neymich on the bench. He groaned.
Gormin stepped closer and looked over Tempus' shoulder. He saw again the web-like pattern of burns on Neymich's bare chest, angry red. Not a disease. Gormin had seen the woman in black causing it with a spider-like numenera device as a means of torture. A white-hot spider dancing a jig wasn't too far off the mark after all.
Neymich's eyelids fluttered. He struggled to speak. "Tell Aliser. Tell Bellias," he wheezed. "Loarn was right. The Tears are real, they exist. Loarn knew and he left the journal in the Shrine of the Winged God."
All this to find out something written in graffiti underneath the Arechive all this time anyway. But Gormin kept his peace for once.
"Hold on a minute," said Tempus. "We have to deliver this to you..." He pressed the grey message tube into Neymich's hand.
Gormin heard a metallic whirring and turned. YimouZha's orange scarab had come to life and risen into the air. It flew out the front door.
"Now where might you be going?" asked YimouZha. "Off to mate with others of your type?" He followed it outside.
"Well, this is interesting," remarked Toorkman. "Being bound is somewhat ignoble. Please release me; you have my word as a nobleman that I will not attempt to escape. Also, you should have not killed poor Psolir. He was only doing his sworn duty to my House Mantir."
Gormin snorted. "You really must be of royal blood if you think you can massacre a whole village and not have to face any consequences. Usually only the highest of high-born are that disconnected from reality. Also, you should pay your minions better. This is pathetic," he complained, thrusting a fistful of looted shins before Toorkman's face.
Toorkman shook his head. "You think I did all this? I kill with a sword. I came here looking to wrest the secret of the Tears of the Gods from the Aeon Priest. When we got here the villagers were mostly missing besides a few dead bodies. You can’t blame the lads for helping themselves. The priest was a babbling wreck, muttering about the 'demons from the depths'. He wouldn’t cooperate, so..." He shrugged. "Sinys was having a little chat with him. Then you arrived."
Gormin frowned. "If the Aeon Priest corroborates your story, maybe you will avoid being hanged for war crimes. What about the farmer family a day or so to the southwest of here? Did gibbering horrors from the depths cut their throats and give the man a burn like Sinys' spider? Or were you interrogating random homesteaders about the Tears of the Gods?"
Toorkman smiled. "What’s a war crime? It sounds interesting."
"A funny-man, eh? Perhaps if you keep us amused we'll let you walk back to the City instead of dragging you by the ankles the whole way." Gormin turned away.
Neymich coughed weakly. The message tube slipped from his fingers. "In the Truth... break the seal and read it to me."
Tempus popped open the seal tube. Inside was a rolled-up scrap of leathery scrip. Tempus read aloud: "If this seal is broken, do not trust these men." He checked to see if anything was on the back, then showed the scrip to Neymich. "That's all. So this is just another test. What do we do next? And more importantly, what attacked all the people here? We don't have time to waste..."
Gormin chuckled darkly. "Apparently Venerance Aliser is a funny-man also. Would not have thought it to look at him."
But Neymich had drifted back to sleep.
***
Syrus
The sun was setting. Neymich sat on a stool in the house's back room, directing Syrus and Tempus as they packed his books and parchments, preparing for the return trip. Neymich, now without a parish, would be returning to the Arechive for debriefing and reassignment. Syrus did most of the packing work; Tempus was unsubtly reading anything of Neymich's that piqued his curiosity.
Though Neymich was not a young man, and still seemed weak from Sinys' ministrations, a few hours of sleep seemed to have done him some good.
He started to relay what happened. "It was last night, at shift change," he said softly. "I was preparing to go to bed when screaming broke out north of the factory. Many ran to see what was happening; I and some others were slower. That slowness made us the lucky ones. On the cliff edge, slithering up from the sea, was a long, dome-shaped head, glistening like... wet leather." He shuddered.
"The Reds and the Greens crowded forward to get a better look, remaining separate from each other even then. From an orifice on top of the creature came a..." He searched for the words. "A... shimmering... bubble that burst into thousands and thousands of hair-like... cilia, engulfing the two crowds. They stuck to people's heads and pulled them in until the victims formed a tight-packed ball. The... ball... of people... rolled over and bounced down the cliff into the sea. I saw another bubble float into the air... the crowd broke and ran... only to find another demon waiting on the south side of the factory."
Neymich hung his head. "In the Truth, I hid; there was nothing I could do. At morning I ventured out; there were strange noises sounding in the factory. If the machines are not tended constantly they will explode due to the pressure, I'm told. At some point I was struck from behind and must have fallen. I would prefer not to remember what followed. In the Truth, I thank you for saving me."
Syrus patted his shoulder awkwardly but said nothing. He resumed packing.
***
Toorkman and Gormin fell to arguing on the road back to the travellers' rest.
"All I wanted was their fingers," explained Toorkman, oh-so-reasonably. He was walking behind the aneen, his bound wrists joined to its saddle by a length of synthrope, just long enough that the aneen wouldn't step on him. "Is it my fault they were unwilling to part with them?"
Gormin was walking beside him, unwilling to let him out of sight. "I am not arguing with the likes of you. Save your warped rationalizations for the judge."
Toorkman twisted awkwardly to address Syrus, who had rear-guard duty as usual. "Your leader calls me warped and a killer who must face justice. But back there I saw the body of my companion Besc, shot in the back. Will the honourable person who did that face justice with me?"
Syrus wondered if someone had told. It didn't matter. "Slowed down, trying for leg. Missed leg. Served justice."
"Your leader spoke to me thus, and I quote, 'Usually only the highest of high-born are that disconnected from reality.' And yet, you have appointed yourself judge, jury, and executioner. Where is your leader’s justice now? He spoke of a war crime; since when is war a crime? I am apparently guilty of such a thing, yet you are not, even though Besc was clearly running away when you killed him."
"B-Besc killed try m-me... I slow him down. Missed." Syrus was getting frustrated. He glanced toward Gormin. "Gormin not speak for me, I... I am my own. Not worried."
A few moments passed in awkward silence. Then Gormin spoke up again. "You claim you don't know what a war crime is, and indeed see nothing wrong with murdering innocents simply out of a desire to disfigure them, yet somehow you object to shooting a known criminal in the back? Yes, warped and disconnected from reality is right."
Gormin spat. "That disgusting slob—Besc, was it?—was a dishonourable coward and a murderer of innocents, like you. Does it matter that his just fate came at the point of a crossbow bolt instead of a hangman's noose? We have a saying in Draolis: honour is for the honourable. All of you forfeited your lives when you murdered that family that meant you no harm, and attacked the Aeon Priest who had done nothing to you. None of you are worthy of honourable treatment as captured soldiers, only punishment as criminals. My only regret is that we didn't kill the rest of your worthless band of brigands—unfortunately, their remarkable cowardice in the face of a foe they outnumbered more than two-to-one was so great that most of them got away. But such is the way of criminals. The only reason you yourself are still alive is that we may yet get a reward or ransom out of you. Although if you keep it up with the self-pitying bellyaching, we may present you to the authorities in the City minus your tongue. Or minus your head.
"You say we are not authorized to be judge, jury, and executioner, but we are," Gormin continued. "We are agents of the Order of Truth, lawfully protecting our people. You attacked us, remember—Frater Neymich is one of ours. The Order has the right to defend itself against common thugs and robbers. There isn't a judge in all of Ghan that would find in your favor against us, so what difference would it make arguing your case in front of a judge? Your snake-woman and gluttonous nano and the rest of your inept highwaymen would be found guilty and hanged; they'd be just as dead at the end of the day."
Gormin shook his head. "If you were in Ancuan, perhaps being a member of the royal family might get you personally off the hook, but that isn't likely to count for much here. But who knows? Maybe King Laird and his nieces will appreciate you murdering and robbing their peasants for no reason and let you go." He snorted. "Actually, realistically, your best hope is that they will ransom you back to your family in Ancuan. Not because that would be just, but because Ancuan is rich. Better hope your family hasn't disowned you due to your blackguard ways. In any event, that is their call, not ours, so arguing with us isn't likely to get you anywhere but dead so soon after you tried to kill us."
That seemed to shut Toorkman up for the moment. Syrus held his peace as well.
As ebb was giving way to night, the group reached the crest from which they had first caught sight of Fallside. Syrus looked back. Where the factory had stood, streaks of dark gunk could be seen leaking down the cliff. Too many boiler and reactor explosions in the factory had destabilized its cliff-side perch—the ledge had finally collapsed and the whole structure had slid into the sea.
Syrus sighed. Not much further to the traveller's shelter. He turned away.
To be continued...
For important disclaimers and whatnot please see the Tears of the Gods table of contents page.
***
Previously in "Tears of the Gods"
From another cage a voice grated bitterly, "Perform? Yes, perform. You are here to fight and die for the pleasure of the crowd of citizens. How do you think the King maintains order? He gives the crowds what the crowds want: a slice-and-dice orgy of blood."
The elevator’s doors swung open upon a sumptuously furnished sitting room, softly lit by a glowing globe hanging from the high ceiling.
Frater Bellias gazed out the windows at the storm. "Your questions are not what I expected. Killing? How can I answer that in the Truth? I am not telling you to kill anyone or anything that is not necessary. The plan has been worked out so that nothing can go wrong."
The grey-cloaked woman side-stepped to cut Syrus off. She snarled in a low voice, "Next time we meet, pray to your Amber Pope that you remember. Meanwhile, remember this!"
The communicator was swiftly turning to black crud that flaked and crumbled away between YimouZha's fingers. For a brief instant the item had touched Ooro’s mind.
Liem's eyes turned to the road east. "When I reached Jaston, I started hearing whispers that Toorkman and his foul band of outlaws had been seen in the area."
"The finger was cut with a sharp instrument, probably a knife," Kiraz continued. "Done within the last 28 hours or so, I think."
***
Date: 9th Fre in the 401st Year of the Founding
YimouZha
YimouZha turned his enormous single eye toward the gloriously blazing sun. "How well you remind us of your might. May the saplings and all plant-forms thrive under your strength."
He heard Gormin scoff behind him. He ignored it and continued down the path. He whispered to the gnarled staff in his hand. "Ah, Seed-Brother, who knew we would ever get this far from home? But we have so much further to go."
By mid-morning though, even YimouZha was struggling under the sun's might. A light breeze blew in from the sea far below them, but it did little to relieve the smothering heat.
As they trudged forward along the cliff's edge, YimouZha gradually became aware of a barely perceptible singing sound coming from somewhere ahead, like thousands of voices whispering a faint song, a melody without words. He realized he was gently swaying to the strange music. How long has it been playing?
"Very strange. Are you hearing this?" YimouZha asked the others. "I've heard of sea-plants that emanate music-like tones, but never anything like this."
They crested a short rise and the source of the otherworldly music became visible. Not far ahead, on the edge of the cliff and blocking the narrow path, lay a clump of shining spheres of various sizes, none much larger than YimouZha's giant eye. They shimmered, transparent and iridescent, not unlike soap bubbles. As the breeze caressed them, a shivering pattern of colours rippled across their surface and they emitted another round of the strange, unearthly singing. The rippling colours and sounds were hauntingly, achingly beautiful, evoking in YimouZha cherished memories of his forest home, when the air was cleaner, the sky was cleaner, and life was cleaner.
Gormin growled aggressively. "Great. If it isn't one thing, it's another." He glanced behind him, then drew his sword and advanced on the bubbles. "Not enough these stupid things gotta block our path—they gotta make an infernal racket too."
Sunlight streamed from YimouZha's eye as he began a Scan esotery. "Light of the sun, reveal what is hidden." But the light of his Scan revealed nothing—the bubbles did not exist. Yet he could see and hear their exquisite beauty quite plainly. He began to think he could sit and listen to it forever. Indeed, had he not? When had he ever not heard this music? He became dimly aware of Gormin and Syrus shouting something. He wished they would shut up.
A rock struck the bubbles.
With a sigh like a million tiny shards of glass breaking, the entire clump shattered and vanished into the air. YimouZha closed his eye as the last of the glittering, hair-like shards winked out of existence. He sighed. A thing of great beauty has gone from the world.
After a few moments, Tempus broke the silence. "It was necessary."
There was no more breeze. The group pressed on under the Fre sun's radiance.
***
Gormin
Gormin was not happy about heading away from the coast. But the cliff road was washed out ahead—nothing for it but to backtrack and take a side-trail to the southeast.
After some time, the trail crossed a stream, now reduced to a muddy trickle under the Fre sun's oppression. Iron Wind blast it all, thought Gormin. Cold water would've been nice. Beyond the stream, sullen gallen grazed here and there amid cultivated pastures, apparently unattended. Ahead in the distance, Gormin could make out a round cottage with a pointed thatch roof, with a cluster of smaller outbuildings around it. A heavy trail of smoke rose from one of the smaller buildings.
The heat was taking its toll on him. Even the effort of speaking was almost not worth the bother. "Strange they need a fire going. Maybe it's a blacksmithy. Suppose we could ask for directions to Fallside. But probably too early to stop here for the night. Not even wane yet." Gormin gritted his teeth. I sound like Syrus now.
As if on cue, Syrus spoke up. "F- fire seems odd... approach?"
Gormin squinted through the sweat dripping from his hairless eyebrows. The smoke was dark and heavy—too heavy. He scanned the farm buildings and fields. Aside from the gallen, he saw no signs of movement. "Yeah, you're right. That's no hearth fire. Let's check it out. If we're lucky, it's abhuman bandits burning down some crofter's outhouse and he'll pay us to fight them off." He attempted a grin, but the heat and those infernal bubbles had put him in a sour mood.
Kiraz nodded. "We should definitely investigate. The worst thing that could happen is that we don't need to help anyone."
There are far worse possibilities than that, Gormin thought, but he was tired of talking.
Approaching the house, it became clear that foul play was afoot. The door had been kicked open and one of the windows broken. The smoke from the burning outbuilding drifted over the group; it smelled of burning wood and charred meat. They set the smokehouse on fire. Barbarians.
Sprawled before the broken door were four bodies: a man, a woman and two female children, all dead. The woman and children had their throats cut from ear to ear; the man's head was bludgeoned in and his shirt ripped open.
On all four, the ring finger of the left hand was missing—severed.
YimouZha examined the children. "Ah... such cruelty. Is the finger that has been removed the same one as at the rest shelter? Who did this?" He looked round. "Do you think their attackers are nearby? It would be wise to avoid them. I do not think it would be worth seeking... what is that word? Revenge. No. We should leave and continue our journey."
Kiraz pushed aside the man's ruined shirt with the point of her verred, exposing a thin tracery of thread-like burns on his skin. "What would cause these?"
Gormin stepped forward and peered at the web-like pattern of burns. A white-hot spider dancing a jig on him, maybe? Gormin looked behind them, searching for enemies. The gallen in the fields did not seem particularly frightened, just listless in the heat. Whoever or whatever did this is almost certainly long gone.
But the burns reminded him of something. "Those burns look similar to the rope-like burns Frater Bellias had on his hand. And the prisoner in the other cage underneath the arena had the same condition, more advanced. Perhaps it isn't really a burn, but a disease, and if it's a disease, it might still be catchable from these bodies or from their possessions inside. And this family may have been killed by their lord or other lawful authority to stop its spread. Either way, I'm not inclined to stick around lest we meet the same fate. It shouldn't be hard to find our way back to the coast and then to Fallside. Let's go."
Gormin turned to go, but the others lingered, still looking at the corpses. He sighed and turned back.
"There is nothing further to be gained here, and we risk much by staying. This world is full of wonders and terrors beyond the ken of humans. If we stop to investigate every anomaly until it's explained to the satisfaction of our curiosity, we will never finish this mission. We do want to continue the mission, yes? I am open to suggestions if someone wants to do something different, but fooling around with possibly diseased corpses is not something I am inclined to do. I'm no hero, and even if I were, these unfortunates are beyond my help now. Let's get out of here."
No more eloquent speeches today, he vowed. He turned and stalked off to the northeast.
***
Lameth
Lameth woke suddenly. Must have dozed off. He was still seated at the octagonal table.
He could sense a group of people approaching the travellers' rest; that must have been what woke him. He touched the side of his forehead and reached out to the group telepathically.
This is my rest... If you come in peace you can enter and refresh yourselves also, but if you come with foul intentions, stay away. I'm not looking for a fight, but if you leave me no choice I will take at least one or two with me.
Lameth stood and moved to the octagonal window. The approaching group was dimly visible below in the dying light of ebb—five of them, armed, plus an aneen. He bit his lip. It was five to one, but he did have a trick up his sleeve—a paralysis-ray cypher in the form of a contact lens in his left eye. It had only one shot, but it might help to even the odds a bit if it came to a fight—just take out the most powerful-looking one.
A thought came back via the telepathic link. We come to rest for the evening and do not wish to fight. With what we have seen today, we are being cautious.
Lameth released his breath and replied. Ok, feel free to enter and rest. There's plenty of food and water up here. I hope you don't mind if you and your companions rest in a different corner of the tower at night? Well, maybe if we get to know each other we could travel together... Where are you heading? And how big is your group?
We are five in number and are headed for Fallside.
Lameth sensed his interlocutor was a human woman. He could feel no dishonesty on her part. Why in the Ninth World would someone be interested in going to that town? What kind of business do you have there?
Why we travel to Fallside is better explained in-person. It is a long story.
Come inside, then.
The strangers shuffled into Lameth's tower.
A strange, tree-like being introduced itself as YimouZha. It carried a gnarled wooden staff in its hand and wore a homespun robe to which a metallic orange-and-black scarab clung. "And how did you arrive here?" the tree-creature asked.
Lameth spoke with his natural voice. "I'm Lameth and I'm currently heading for the City of Bridges. Actually, I have no real destination—I'm just looking for some adventure. You said something about Fallside; what are you up to? I just came from there... A strange town and even stranger people."
The ugliest man Lameth had ever seen answered his question.
"We are heading to Fallside to deliver a message on behalf of the Aeon Priests. If you're looking for adventure, you can come along. We could use a telepath, as many of the people connected to this mission have been acting suspiciously from the start. As for you, wandering around out here alone may not be safe—we just came from a farmstead where the family was massacred by persons unknown. The killers' tracks led to somewhere in this general vicinity. After we deliver the message, we plan to return to the City immediately, so if you accompany us, it should only be a day or two diversion. I'm Gormin, by the way. I would crack a joke to break the ice, but I am far too tired."
Gormin's voice was nearly as rough as his face. Lameth wondered what was wrong with him, but it seemed impertinent to ask, so he didn't.
Introductions were made all round, and the group of five retired to the room opposite Lameth's.
Lameth returned to the window and looked out into the night. He could sense the four minds in the next room and the one below keeping watch—the time-traveller, Tempus. Dimly, he could also sense the aneen in the first-floor stable, but animal minds were much more difficult for him to get a read on. Lameth leaned his forehead against the octagonal stronglass pane; he found it hard to sleep around strangers due to their unfamiliar psyches.
Around midnight, the sky was lit by flashes of lightning as a storm rolled in from the sea. After some time, it passed on further inland, leaving the air noticeably cooler.
Lameth decided the strange group was trustworthy. A telepath's instincts were rarely wrong.
***
Date: 10th Fre in the 401st Year of the Founding
At about midday, the town of Fallside came into view, perched on the cliff-edge and stretching a little ways inland.
A vaguely oval-shaped metal building bristling with hatches, pipes, tubes, and chutes dominated the village from its precarious seat at the very edge of the cliff—the factory. Streams of smoke rose from chimneys of various sizes and shapes on its flat roof. From the side of the building, a spillway extended westwards and downwards to the ocean. Green and red sludge dribbled down the spillway toward the water, mixing together as it went. Lameth frowned. Was that right? Had that been happening before? Clustered around the factory were little round houses with thatch roofs. Aside from a handful of neutral grey buildings, the homes to the north were painted red; the ones to the south, green. No one seemed to be walking around outside.
Lameth could sense Gormin's puzzlement before he spoke. "They dump the sludge in the ocean? How strange. Is the sludge a byproduct of whatever it is they really produce?"
Lameth shook his head, forgetting to use his natural voice. Something is wrong. Yesterday, this place was a hive of activity, with red and green workers changing shifts every few hours.
They reached the outskirts of the town. A strong stench of rotting fish filled the air. The smell hadn't been there yesterday.
"Look." That was Kiraz. Lameth looked: blobs and smears of transparent slime were everywhere, and the ground was crisscrossed by deep grooves. Look like drag marks. The group spread out and advanced cautiously into the village.
There were bodies.
Some lay behind walls, some in the alleyways between the buildings, some wedged in doorways. Most appeared to be trying to brace themselves in place. All were missing their heads, which seemed to have been pulled or sucked off.
"The people of Fallside have clearly lost their minds," said Tempus. "The curious thing is that they seem to have lost them physically, not metaphorically, and with a great deal of force. We should try and locate Neymich and deliver the message. And withdraw quickly before we lose our minds too."
Kiraz and Syrus nodded agreement. "Yes, m- message delivery," said Syrus. He smiled sardonically. "We n- need to keep about us our heads."
Gormin sniffed. "Perhaps one of the factions massacred the other. Such is the nature of factions. If so, it's their business, not ours. Lameth, do you know where Frater Neymich resides? Probably wears an orange robe and is remarkably useless."
Lameth turned a bit to the left and gestured. "Up behind there is where he lives, or by the looks of things... maybe lived?"
Lameth drew his dagger and led the way. Far above, a great geyser of steam shot from one of the factory's chimneys.
Lameth sensed others ahead. The group rounded the corner of Neymich's neighbor's house. By Neymich's front door were three people. One sat on the ground eating a smoked gallen drumstick; two leaned against the wall: a lanky, bearded male and a green-skinned female. They were talking casually and smiling.
YimouZha strode directly up to the strangers, eye-stalk raised high and offering the hand of greeting.
The green woman caught sight of YimouZha and stepped away from the wall. She was lithe and athletic, with tightly braided hair, but had no obvious armour or weapon. "A golthiar!" she exclaimed. "How wonderful. I love your kind: you get driven to do a quest and leave plenty of rich pickings in your wake. But there is nothing for you here. We were here first. Sorry." She gestured mock-apologetically. Lameth noted that she was missing her left ring finger.
"Pytha." The seated man gestured with his half-eaten drumstick at the rest of the group. "There are others." He had a shaven head with a metal stud the size of a fist protruding from the centre of his forehead. Gallen juice dripped down his chin. He also was missing the ring finger on his left hand.
"Iadace!" said YimouZha. "We are not concerned with who was here first. We are here to deliver a message to Frater Neymich, and then we will head back. Is he here? When we're gone you can continue with... whatever it is you're doing."
Pytha eyed YimouZha up and down, eyes glowing. Lameth could feel the greed rolling off her psyche like a wave.
"A message, you say? Would that be concerning the Tears of the Gods? If it is, we would be very interested. Hand it over, and then you can... head back."
The two men chuckled.
Kiraz stepped forward. "Nay, we need to deliver the message to Frater Neymich. We do not wish any arguments." She dropped a hand to the verred at her hip.
Lameth stepped between the group and the three strangers, hoping to deescalate. "Please don't even try, Pytha, we don't want bloodshed here. Why cross weapons over a simple message? We should try to find out what happened to this village. Besides that, you are outnumb-"
He broke off as he realized that the strangers were not actually outnumbered. He sensed more psyches in the house, more behind the group, and more... above? He turned. On the factory roof. He silently cursed himself; the terrible smell and the strangeness of the situation had distracted him.
"The priest... is busy at the moment," purred Pytha. Now face-to-face, Lameth could see she had yellow eyes with vertical slits. Her skin was scaled like a reptile's.
The man with the stud spat out a piece of bone. He laughed and rose to his feet.
"However," Pytha continued languidly, "if you want to talk, we can talk. Perhaps just you and I? Somewhere quiet? After all, we're just passing through and are in no particular hurry. What do you say, big boy?"
He didn't need his psychic abilities to tell him that would not be a good idea. He forced a smile to his face. "We... don't need to go anywhere to talk privately."
An agonized shriek came from inside the house.
The bearded man grinned at the studded gallen-eater. "Pay up, Besc. I said the old fool wouldn’t keep his mouth shut." The bearded man had greasy reddish hair and a long beard that forked into three loose braids. He also was missing his ring finger.
Another shriek cut through the air.
Gormin wordlessly charged into the house, sword and shield suddenly in hand.
His reaction seemed to have taken them all by surprise. "Toorkman!" Pytha shouted. "Couldn’t stop him getting in! There are others!" She smiled at Lameth and hissed menacingly. "But nothing we can’t handle. We could have been such friends."
She lashed out with both arms at Lameth, blindingly fast. But Lameth sensed it coming and twisted out of the way.
A bolt of sunlight struck the wall behind Pytha.
Besc cast aside his gallen meat. "I've got this." His metal stud sparked and crackled—purple lightning leapt out from it at someone behind Lameth. He heard YimouZha cry out.
No time to worry about that now. He circled around Pytha, seeking an opening. Suddenly Syrus' whip snaked out, wrapping itself around Pytha's neck—Syrus yanked hard, pulling her off balance. From nowhere, Kiraz darted forward and sank her verred in Pytha's kidney.
And just like that, Pytha was down.
Besc didn't take it well. "Pytha! No!" Besc jerked his upper body forward, ejecting the stud from his head. The metal sphere bounced at Kiraz' feet.
It exploded in a blaze of bluish-purple force.
Lameth reeled, trying to blink away the spots before his eyes.
Crossbow bolts rained down, coming from the direction of the factory. One lodged itself in the roof of Neymich's house. Another struck the ground near Lameth's feet.
Disoriented and ears ringing, Lameth ran unsteadily into the house. Gormin was facing off alone against three more attackers. Tied to a bench was an unconscious older man in a torn orange robe—that has to be Neymich.
One of the attackers was a woman in a black tunic and leggings with more than half her face disfigured into a huge blistered mass of raw flesh. A few stringy strands of black hair clung to her scalp. She had a bleeding gash over her right eye that Gormin must have put there.
The second attacker was a helmeted middle-aged man in brigandine armor, holding a poleaxe defensively across his chest. He was using his whole body to shield the third attacker from Gormin.
From behind his human shield, the third attacker was extending a wickedly complex numenera device forward, trying to get a good angle on Gormin. He mashed an awkwardly positioned thumb-button on its makeshift-looking handle. A bright purple beam lanced out from the device, but either he had poor aim or Gormin had good defensive instincts—it missed.
That must be Toorkman. Lameth remembered his paralysis cypher. With a thought, he activated it. Toorkman was instantly surrounded by a shimmering field of ruby-red energy, muscles locked. He fell awkwardly at the ugly woman's feet, the complex device slipping from his involuntarily clenched fist.
The woman spoke. "Calaval’s eyes! I haven’t been paid yet. You," jerking her chin at Gormin, "are as fierce as a cragworm. I like that. Still, time to go."
She dropped to one knee and snatched another, smaller device from Toorkman's belt. Before Lameth could react, she was gone, vanished.
The remaining bandit raised his voice. "Besc! Ysin! Toorkman is down and the bitch has gone. I will do my sworn duty!" He then addressed Gormin and Lameth more formally. "I am Psolir; my family have served House Mantir for generations. I am sworn to defend Toorkman of House Mantir to the death, and I shall discharge my duty."
Psolir jabbed his poleaxe at Gormin, which he deflected with his shield.
"Noble words for a common bandit." Gormin circled left, trying to force Psolir to turn his back to Lameth.
"Noble words indeed, and meant."
Lameth heard a shout from outside. "Ten out here! Needful help!" Syrus.
Gormin shouted back. "Stand fast! Almost done in here!"
Lameth sensed the exact moment of Gormin's strike. He lunged in low with his dagger as Gormin slashed high. Psolir hesitated between blocking the two strikes a moment too long and blocked neither. Lameth's dagger entered his side just as Gormin's backsword cut his throat. His lifeless body sprawled atop Toorkman.
***
Gormin
Gormin went through the last of the dead bandits' pockets. It was slim pickings. The cowards had broken and run when their leader went down, despite still having a numbers advantage—most of them had escaped. Every escaped bandit was a bandit with shins still in his pockets, curse them all. At least Besc didn't get away. The latter lay face down in the dust, a crossbow quarrel still sticking up from the back of his neck.
Gormin returned to the house. Toorkman was sitting upright now on the house's dirt floor, though still tightly tied up. He was wearing fancy nobleman finery, but stolen used clothes were difficult to find buyers for so Gormin hadn't bothered to strip him naked. His nine rings—one for each finger, less the missing left ring finger—were a different story.
Tempus and YimouZha were still tending to Neymich on the bench. He groaned.
Gormin stepped closer and looked over Tempus' shoulder. He saw again the web-like pattern of burns on Neymich's bare chest, angry red. Not a disease. Gormin had seen the woman in black causing it with a spider-like numenera device as a means of torture. A white-hot spider dancing a jig wasn't too far off the mark after all.
Neymich's eyelids fluttered. He struggled to speak. "Tell Aliser. Tell Bellias," he wheezed. "Loarn was right. The Tears are real, they exist. Loarn knew and he left the journal in the Shrine of the Winged God."
All this to find out something written in graffiti underneath the Arechive all this time anyway. But Gormin kept his peace for once.
"Hold on a minute," said Tempus. "We have to deliver this to you..." He pressed the grey message tube into Neymich's hand.
Gormin heard a metallic whirring and turned. YimouZha's orange scarab had come to life and risen into the air. It flew out the front door.
"Now where might you be going?" asked YimouZha. "Off to mate with others of your type?" He followed it outside.
"Well, this is interesting," remarked Toorkman. "Being bound is somewhat ignoble. Please release me; you have my word as a nobleman that I will not attempt to escape. Also, you should have not killed poor Psolir. He was only doing his sworn duty to my House Mantir."
Gormin snorted. "You really must be of royal blood if you think you can massacre a whole village and not have to face any consequences. Usually only the highest of high-born are that disconnected from reality. Also, you should pay your minions better. This is pathetic," he complained, thrusting a fistful of looted shins before Toorkman's face.
Toorkman shook his head. "You think I did all this? I kill with a sword. I came here looking to wrest the secret of the Tears of the Gods from the Aeon Priest. When we got here the villagers were mostly missing besides a few dead bodies. You can’t blame the lads for helping themselves. The priest was a babbling wreck, muttering about the 'demons from the depths'. He wouldn’t cooperate, so..." He shrugged. "Sinys was having a little chat with him. Then you arrived."
Gormin frowned. "If the Aeon Priest corroborates your story, maybe you will avoid being hanged for war crimes. What about the farmer family a day or so to the southwest of here? Did gibbering horrors from the depths cut their throats and give the man a burn like Sinys' spider? Or were you interrogating random homesteaders about the Tears of the Gods?"
Toorkman smiled. "What’s a war crime? It sounds interesting."
"A funny-man, eh? Perhaps if you keep us amused we'll let you walk back to the City instead of dragging you by the ankles the whole way." Gormin turned away.
Neymich coughed weakly. The message tube slipped from his fingers. "In the Truth... break the seal and read it to me."
Tempus popped open the seal tube. Inside was a rolled-up scrap of leathery scrip. Tempus read aloud: "If this seal is broken, do not trust these men." He checked to see if anything was on the back, then showed the scrip to Neymich. "That's all. So this is just another test. What do we do next? And more importantly, what attacked all the people here? We don't have time to waste..."
Gormin chuckled darkly. "Apparently Venerance Aliser is a funny-man also. Would not have thought it to look at him."
But Neymich had drifted back to sleep.
***
Syrus
The sun was setting. Neymich sat on a stool in the house's back room, directing Syrus and Tempus as they packed his books and parchments, preparing for the return trip. Neymich, now without a parish, would be returning to the Arechive for debriefing and reassignment. Syrus did most of the packing work; Tempus was unsubtly reading anything of Neymich's that piqued his curiosity.
Though Neymich was not a young man, and still seemed weak from Sinys' ministrations, a few hours of sleep seemed to have done him some good.
He started to relay what happened. "It was last night, at shift change," he said softly. "I was preparing to go to bed when screaming broke out north of the factory. Many ran to see what was happening; I and some others were slower. That slowness made us the lucky ones. On the cliff edge, slithering up from the sea, was a long, dome-shaped head, glistening like... wet leather." He shuddered.
"The Reds and the Greens crowded forward to get a better look, remaining separate from each other even then. From an orifice on top of the creature came a..." He searched for the words. "A... shimmering... bubble that burst into thousands and thousands of hair-like... cilia, engulfing the two crowds. They stuck to people's heads and pulled them in until the victims formed a tight-packed ball. The... ball... of people... rolled over and bounced down the cliff into the sea. I saw another bubble float into the air... the crowd broke and ran... only to find another demon waiting on the south side of the factory."
Neymich hung his head. "In the Truth, I hid; there was nothing I could do. At morning I ventured out; there were strange noises sounding in the factory. If the machines are not tended constantly they will explode due to the pressure, I'm told. At some point I was struck from behind and must have fallen. I would prefer not to remember what followed. In the Truth, I thank you for saving me."
Syrus patted his shoulder awkwardly but said nothing. He resumed packing.
***
Toorkman and Gormin fell to arguing on the road back to the travellers' rest.
"All I wanted was their fingers," explained Toorkman, oh-so-reasonably. He was walking behind the aneen, his bound wrists joined to its saddle by a length of synthrope, just long enough that the aneen wouldn't step on him. "Is it my fault they were unwilling to part with them?"
Gormin was walking beside him, unwilling to let him out of sight. "I am not arguing with the likes of you. Save your warped rationalizations for the judge."
Toorkman twisted awkwardly to address Syrus, who had rear-guard duty as usual. "Your leader calls me warped and a killer who must face justice. But back there I saw the body of my companion Besc, shot in the back. Will the honourable person who did that face justice with me?"
Syrus wondered if someone had told. It didn't matter. "Slowed down, trying for leg. Missed leg. Served justice."
"Your leader spoke to me thus, and I quote, 'Usually only the highest of high-born are that disconnected from reality.' And yet, you have appointed yourself judge, jury, and executioner. Where is your leader’s justice now? He spoke of a war crime; since when is war a crime? I am apparently guilty of such a thing, yet you are not, even though Besc was clearly running away when you killed him."
"B-Besc killed try m-me... I slow him down. Missed." Syrus was getting frustrated. He glanced toward Gormin. "Gormin not speak for me, I... I am my own. Not worried."
A few moments passed in awkward silence. Then Gormin spoke up again. "You claim you don't know what a war crime is, and indeed see nothing wrong with murdering innocents simply out of a desire to disfigure them, yet somehow you object to shooting a known criminal in the back? Yes, warped and disconnected from reality is right."
Gormin spat. "That disgusting slob—Besc, was it?—was a dishonourable coward and a murderer of innocents, like you. Does it matter that his just fate came at the point of a crossbow bolt instead of a hangman's noose? We have a saying in Draolis: honour is for the honourable. All of you forfeited your lives when you murdered that family that meant you no harm, and attacked the Aeon Priest who had done nothing to you. None of you are worthy of honourable treatment as captured soldiers, only punishment as criminals. My only regret is that we didn't kill the rest of your worthless band of brigands—unfortunately, their remarkable cowardice in the face of a foe they outnumbered more than two-to-one was so great that most of them got away. But such is the way of criminals. The only reason you yourself are still alive is that we may yet get a reward or ransom out of you. Although if you keep it up with the self-pitying bellyaching, we may present you to the authorities in the City minus your tongue. Or minus your head.
"You say we are not authorized to be judge, jury, and executioner, but we are," Gormin continued. "We are agents of the Order of Truth, lawfully protecting our people. You attacked us, remember—Frater Neymich is one of ours. The Order has the right to defend itself against common thugs and robbers. There isn't a judge in all of Ghan that would find in your favor against us, so what difference would it make arguing your case in front of a judge? Your snake-woman and gluttonous nano and the rest of your inept highwaymen would be found guilty and hanged; they'd be just as dead at the end of the day."
Gormin shook his head. "If you were in Ancuan, perhaps being a member of the royal family might get you personally off the hook, but that isn't likely to count for much here. But who knows? Maybe King Laird and his nieces will appreciate you murdering and robbing their peasants for no reason and let you go." He snorted. "Actually, realistically, your best hope is that they will ransom you back to your family in Ancuan. Not because that would be just, but because Ancuan is rich. Better hope your family hasn't disowned you due to your blackguard ways. In any event, that is their call, not ours, so arguing with us isn't likely to get you anywhere but dead so soon after you tried to kill us."
That seemed to shut Toorkman up for the moment. Syrus held his peace as well.
As ebb was giving way to night, the group reached the crest from which they had first caught sight of Fallside. Syrus looked back. Where the factory had stood, streaks of dark gunk could be seen leaking down the cliff. Too many boiler and reactor explosions in the factory had destabilized its cliff-side perch—the ledge had finally collapsed and the whole structure had slid into the sea.
Syrus sighed. Not much further to the traveller's shelter. He turned away.
To be continued...
