Ricardo Pinto - The Third God

Suddenly, the leftway came to a ragged end and they saw, spreading out before them, the flood mirroring the stars of heaven. From the water rose a lonely watch-tower. It seemed to Carnelian they had been walking lost, without any certain destination, neither uttering a sound, for fear words might dent their resolve, but he knew in his bones that that watch-tower was what they sought.

‘Let’s climb it,’ he said and Fern agreed, adding: ‘The edge of the flood must be close to where the Iron House lies ruined.’

Uneasy at that thought, they set off towards the shadow tower.

Posts rose up on either side of the road that they realized must be the remains of the massive outer gates of Molochite’s camp. Carnelian hesitated. The posts seemed guardians; like the colossi that guarded the entrance into Osrakum. He knew that he and Fern stood upon an earthbridge; on either side the military ditch had become a moat.

‘What’s the matter?’ Fern asked.

Carnelian sensed that, once they crossed the drowned ditch, there would be no turning back.

‘Come on, it’s not far away,’ Fern said in an angry tone Carnelian sensed was really fear.

They walked along the road that cleaved the mirror of the flooded camp where once Molochite had marshalled the might of the Masters. With each step the tower grew larger until they could see its arms spread wide against the stars. Carnelian felt the visceral shock even as Fern whispered: ‘It’s like a tree.’

Chilled to the bone, Carnelian said nothing, but just kept walking. They came to the stumps of the gates that had once opened into the Encampment of the Chosen and passed through, aware they were entering another circle. A ring within a ring, like the Stone Dance of the Chameleon, except that this circle was cut directly into the body of the earth. And then Carnelian saw that it was as if they were penetrating to the heart of some infernal mockery of the Koppie, except that in place of its mother trees there stood a lone, gigantic black tree. Like a baobab, he thought, with deepening foreboding. The impression grew stronger as they came closer and it spread its branches above them. Then they were standing before the doorway at its foot and Carnelian shuddered, for its reflection sent roots down into the Underworld and he knew in his marrow that this was the fulfilment of his dreams.

‘Now what?’ Fern whispered.

Carnelian summoned up his will. ‘We climb.’

Together they approached the doorway and offered themselves up to be swallowed by its absolute darkness. Dank the air, thick with an animal stench. Carnelian sensed the fingers seeking his and clasped Fern’s hand. Slowly, he felt his way along the clammy wall until it brought them to the first ramp. Their feet found the ridges in the slope and they began climbing. They followed the wall round to the next ramp; breathing stinking air; starting each time the body of the tower creaked above them. Both wanted to go down, to flee into the starry night, but they had accepted it was their fate to climb higher. Ridge after ridge after ridge. Another turn. Until, at last, they shuffled out onto a smooth floor, their free hands fingering the blackness, a cool, sweet breeze in their faces. They followed it, hoping to reach the exposed section of leftway remaining outside. Then their grip clenched as they heard movement on the ramps below. They turned, aware of the animal odour swelling. Padding footfalls. They drew closer, wanting to face the brutes together.

‘ We’re unarmed,’ Carnelian said into the darkness that he sensed was filling with bodies. ‘We’ve come to offer ourselves up to you, willingly.’ He had not managed to keep his voice steady. The scuffling grew louder. He could smell their sweat, their filthiness, the foulness of their breath that seemed a contagion he wanted to shrink from. He stood his ground, however, drawing what reassurance there was in feeling Fern against him, but he did not fool himself. He was afraid. If this was the fulfilment of his dream, it was not how he had imagined it. What had he done? How could he have brought them to such a squalid end?

The scuffling ceased. The smell of fear was sharp in his nostrils. At first he thought it was rising from his own body, or from Fern’s, but then he realized it laced the stench wafting towards them. This sharpened the panic to an insistent throb in his temples. Frightened, the sartlar could be as dangerous as raveners.

Sudden light stabbed his eyes. He threw his arm up to shield them. Gasps were followed by the sound of the creatures in the darkness recoiling. Carnelian lowered his arm slowly, squinting. He could make them out, a shapeless mass crowding the chamber; all hair and rags. A single crooked, bony arm holding aloft the light. He glanced round at Fern. Each saw the other’s fear. The skin around Fern’s eyes creased. Carnelian read this as a sign of acceptance. It calmed his heart a little. Disengaging from him, he turned back to the sartlar and raised his arms, pressing the wrists together in a sign of submission. ‘We’ll not fight you.’

Heads lowered, the sartlar shuffled closer, some edging along the walls to surround them. Carnelian could not help searching through their manes for their eyes, seeking the light of any humanity that might have descended to them from their Quyan forebears, wanting to find that part of them that was like him; but they ducked as his gaze fell on them, wincing as if he were hurting them.

Suddenly, with a shriek, one of them lunged towards him, swinging at him. Carnelian raised his arm, but not fast enough. Something hard crashed into his temple. Next thing he was on his knees, groaning. Fern’s anguished cry made Carnelian try to focus. He became aware of them pounding Fern with their clubs. He gaped at him falling to the ground bleeding, certain he must be dead. A groan from Fern caused Carnelian’s paralysis of grief to melt into tears. He fought down rage and an urge to violence and allowed his arms to be wrenched behind him. He bore the cruel binding as if his forearms had been someone else’s. He watched them trussing up Fern. What hope was left in Carnelian died as he saw them tie a rope around Fern’s neck, so that he hardly cared when one was put around his own.

Sartlar shoved and yanked them down the ramps like sacks of roots. It was easier once they tumbled out onto the road. Then they were marching, stumbling at each tug of the ropes around their necks, crashing to their knees to be jerked up again. Remotely, Carnelian remembered his last slavery upon this same road. This time there could be no Fern riding to the rescue.

Lurching along, Carnelian fell against one of the sartlar, who threw him off. They had come to a halt. The sartlar growled words to each other he could not make out. Though he could just see their shapes around him, it was their stench that gave them a more solid presence. There was a sound of footfalls running off along the faint road. Trying to make out the runner, he found instead a black mass cut out from the starry sky. At first he could not imagine what it might be, then he knew. Half off the road, what else could it be but the Iron House?

A slackening of the rope at his neck distracted him. He sensed the sartlar around him relaxing and took the opportunity to shuffle towards where he guessed Fern to be. His shoulder touched something that shuddered, but then pressed back against him. As their point of contact warmed, Carnelian felt a little safer. His gaze returned to the malevolent mass of the Iron House. Was that odour of blood oozing from its iron skin? He gave a shudder and looked away, soothing his fear with the view into the water below the road, with its dusting of stars. He became aware its southern margin was dull. Squinting, he could see nothing but darkness in that direction. A susurration came across the water as if they were near the sea. He shivered, turned back to the brooding blackness of the Iron House. That the flood should have reached here and no further seemed an evil omen. Then he remembered something and turned to search for the edge of the road near him. Sure enough, a curve of shadow rose there, so close that, had his arm been free, he imagined he could reach out and touch it. It was the upper edge of Molochite’s fallen standard leaning against the road. It had given them shelter the first time they had made love. He chose to see in this a more hopeful omen.