Ricardo Pinto - The Third God

Poppy tugged his hand. He could see in her face that she knew where he was going. He bent to kiss her.

‘Come back,’ she said.

He nodded, told Kor that she and the sartlar must protect Poppy with their lives then, mounting, rode back towards the battle.

He slowed his aquar when he saw riders approaching. Among the indigo of the Oracles, Osidian’s pale face seemed made of bone. Beyond them raveners prowled the battlefield. Carnelian felt sick. There was no sign of living Plainsmen nor Marula warriors. He could not believe them all perished. He would not. He waited as calmly as he could for Osidian to reach him.

The Master’s legs, arms and face were streaked with gore. His eyes burned. ‘Be joyous, Carnelian, we are victorious.’

Osidian was shivering. Carnelian could not tell if the agony he was suffering was from a wound or from the maggots. ‘The Plainsmen and the Marula?’

Osidian closed his eyes and sank back into his chair. Beside him, Morunasa fixed Carnelian with a baleful look. ‘They hunt what remains of the auxiliaries.’

‘And you don’t?’

Morunasa indicated Osidian. ‘The Kissed will soon give birth to the servants of our Lord.’

Carnelian saw with unease the reverence with which the Oracles were regarding Osidian. As Morunasa led them past him, Carnelian searched the horizon, then turned his aquar to follow them back to the koppie. His plan lay in ruins. He dared not consider how many men might have been slain. He no longer knew what was happening.

Carnelian stood guard on the gate waiting for Fern and Krow, counting the survivors. All day they came in, Plainsmen and Marula, exhausted and bloody, but with the stiff backs and raised chins of victors. He asked the Plainsmen for news of Fern. Many told him that, when they had last seen him, he had been dealing death to the auxiliaries.

Carnelian was sitting, morose, when another group came in. He rose and saw with joy that Fern was among them. He ran forward to greet him, but was warned off by the look in his eyes.

‘Many good men fell today.’

Carnelian nodded. ‘But most have survived.’

‘And Poppy?’ The speaker was so begrimed with blood that Carnelian did not at first realize it was Krow.

‘Safe and unhurt.’

‘And the Master?’ asked Fern.

‘He returned with Morunasa.’

‘What now?’

‘I don’t know.’

Scowling, Fern dismounted and, leaving his aquar in Krow’s care, he strode into the grove. Carnelian and the youth exchanged glances, then Carnelian followed Fern.

Ravener screeches carried through the night as the monsters feasted on the wounded and the dead. The Plainsmen cowered, sick with shame that they had abandoned their brethren to such a fate. Poppy whispered to Carnelian that it reminded her of the sounds coming from the Isle of Flies.

Morunasa and the Oracles clustered around Osidian as he groaned, like crows around a corpse. Nauseated, Carnelian watched them minister to Osidian like midwives. When the moon had set, pale maggots as thick as thumbs began wriggling out from the sticky mouths of his wounds. The Oracles cherished them as if they were babies.

First light found Carnelian bleary – eyed. He had hardly slept. At first he had been haunted by the maggot births, then he became possessed by the fear that, at any moment, Aurum would fall on them with his dragons. He was exhausted from the continuous effort of listening for the first tremor of an attack. He rose, knuckled his forehead, rubbed his eyes. A gleam from Osidian’s body could just be seen through the huddle of the Oracles. Where he had failed to work out Aurum’s intentions, Osidian might succeed. As he approached, Morunasa rose to bar his way.

‘I must talk to him.’

The Oracle shook his head. ‘It’s our Lord who must wake him from within his dreams.’

‘But we’re still in danger. The dragons could be upon us at any time.’

Morunasa frowned. ‘What I fear is more terrible than dragons.’ He leaned close. ‘Can you not feel the presence of our Lord?’

The odour of the Isle of Flies was coming off his ashen skin. Carnelian shuddered, swayed by Morunasa’s certainty, finding it easy to sense the Darkness-under-the-Trees pulsing in the gloom. It drove the last fragment of fight out of him. He became too weary to withstand his doubts. The edifices he had constructed with his reason crumbled. An old fear returned. What if Osidian’s power revived? What if victory over the auxiliaries were to give him back ascendancy over the Plainsmen?

‘The men intend to return to their homes today.’ It was Fern approaching.

Carnelian glanced back towards where Osidian lay.

‘He can do nothing to stop it.’

‘You’re so sure?’

Fern gave a solid nod, but Carnelian thought he saw a glimmer of uncertainty in his eyes. Rising commotion and an impression of movement made him notice the whole hillside in motion. In the twilight it was hard to make out individuals.

‘First they’ll return to the battlefield,’ Fern said.

Carnelian nodded. It was good that they should save what they could of their dead.

‘I fear Hookfork will be waiting for them,’ said Fern.

‘I too,’ said Carnelian, glad to be able to share his fear with someone. ‘But that leaves us with the mystery of what caused the thunder in the night.’

Fern grimaced. ‘Could Hookfork have gone north, hoping to trap us?’

‘If so why has he allowed us to destroy his auxiliaries?’

‘Perhaps he felt it all-important to protect his render supply.’

Carnelian shook his head. ‘A few dragons would have sufficed for that.’

Fern’s eyes flashed. ‘What then?’

Carnelian had an answer, but dared not voice it until he was sure it was not desperation overthrowing reason. Fern’s pained frustration drew it out of him. ‘Perhaps he’s fled back to the Guarded Land.’

‘Why would he do that? You told us the Master’s the entire focus of his schemes.’

‘He is, but Hookfork might fear the Master reaching the Guarded Land before him.’

With effort, Carnelian strove to analyse matters as a Master might. Barbarians were unimportant; even the loss of so many auxiliaries. What mattered was how all this would be perceived in Osrakum. This war was merely the shadow cast by the game being played there between the Powers. The Wise had risked much in attempting to retrieve Osidian: Aurum had risked everything. If Osidian were to make his appearance unfettered, the alignments of the forces would be disrupted. The Wise might be able to regain control, but Aurum would be lucky to salvage anything at all.

Carnelian became aware of Fern’s exasperation. He sought to find an end to untie the knot of his analysis for him, then gave up the attempt. ‘Politics.’

Seeing Fern grow angry, Carnelian was about to retreat from his Chosen vantage point, when a thought occurred to him. Such an appearance by Osidian might disrupt the nexus of power in Osrakum enough to cause the whole business in the Earthsky, even the sins of the Plainsmen, to be forgotten. He was stunned, certain he was seeing a move in the game. He found himself trying to remember the few things his father had said about how it was played. Why had his father taught him so little?

He focused on Fern’s angry frustration. The desire to save him, to save Poppy and the Plainsmen, to atone for the annihilation of the Ochre, all this meant he must learn to play the Masters’ game.

He reached out to touch Fern. ‘I’m sorry.’