Ricardo Pinto - The Third God

‘Master?’

Carnelian shook his head. Heart-of-Thunder and Earth-is-Strong had swung round to move in parallel as they closed upon the sartlar. He lunged forward to grab his Lefthand’s shoulder. ‘Send a signal along the line in both directions: desist!’

The man looked at him, his face stiffening with panic.

‘Send it,’ Carnelian roared.

The man’s mouth approached his voice fork, muttered the commands. Carnelian peered out of the port screen, straining to make out Osidian’s tower in the eddying dust-clouds. He waited for some response. Then he noticed smoke beginning to wisp from Osidian’s chimneys. To starboard, more was hazing up from every tower within eyeshot. The ring of dragons tightened, training the spikes of its flame-pipes on the sartlar mass, which was darkening as they huddled closer. Without taking his eyes off them, Carnelian leaned to his Lefthand. ‘No signal?’

‘None, Master,’ the man replied, his voice breaking.

Black smoke was pumping up all around the ring. Carnelian felt numb. Already it was too late. Nauseated, he gazed down upon the cowering, waiting sartlar. A command flickered round the ring. A sound like coughing issued from Heart-of-Thunder’s flame-pipes. Then a whining that rose to a screaming. The sunlight made the fire arcs invisible until they hit the sartlar. Smoke erupted in their midst. Fire was there, incandescent in the darkness overwhelming them. More pipes were screaming. The blackness oozed out, feathering skywards. At its heart, man-shaped flames cavorted as they burned.

Leaden with horror, choking on a rage he did not want to vent on those around him, Carnelian sat frozen as they moved away from the pyre. All the rest of that day he remained thus, speaking only to give his Lefthand the minimum instructions to keep their place in the line as Osidian took them ever further westwards. A voice spoke within him that he could not shut out. It accused him of once again having become Osidian’s fool. That it was only sartlar who had been destroyed did not make him feel better. The only thin comfort came from his father’s voice, speaking quietly within him, telling him he must play the long game.

The sun was low when they spiralled the dragons into another laager. Carnelian descended from his tower feeling brittle but determined. As legionaries erected pavilions, he stood aloof, watching the dragons being fed. He noticed Osidian talking to Morunasa. His gold face remained serene as Morunasa’s folded into a frown. The Oracle glanced over to his fellows then, turning back, he gave a nod. Carnelian was curious, but had other priorities. Osidian was heading towards the pavilion that had been set up at the centre of the camp. Carnelian followed, told their Hands to remain outside, then entered.

A shape in the gloom greeted him. He was in no mood for pleasantries. Unmasking, he waited until Osidian did the same. ‘Why was it necessary, my Lord, to torch the sartlar?’

Osidian frowned. ‘I would have thought that obvious enough.’

‘The flame-pipes could have been tested as effectively on empty ground.’

Osidian’s frown deepened. ‘It was more the commanders’ willingness to obey me that I wished to test.’

Carnelian stared. ‘You really believe their willingness to cremate sartlar proves they would make war upon the forces of the Commonwealth?’

Osidian’s face hardened.

‘Was this test worth betraying our position to the Wise? At least one of their watch-towers must have seen the smoke.’

Carnelian was undaunted by Osidian’s glare.

‘Examine your heart, Osidian. Look there for your hidden purpose. Are you sure you were not merely seeking to burn yourself clean of the taint of slavery?’

Osidian’s eyes flashed. ‘How dare-’

‘Have you forgotten I shared it? No amount of killing will ever remove the humiliation. Your failure to deal with how you feel endangers the very goals you claim you seek.’

The contempt Carnelian felt for Osidian’s self-deception made it easy to withstand the wrath burning in his eyes. Still, when Osidian disengaged, Carnelian was left feeling sick to his stomach. The nausea warred with an unfamiliar triumph. As their Hands were called in and began undoing their suits, Carnelian wrestled with his emotions. Triumph was the one he distrusted: it was altogether too Masterly. Still, he must seek victory wherever it might be found.

‘I leave tomorrow,’ Osidian said, suddenly.

Carnelian looked up. ‘Leave?’

Osidian’s eyes were focused on some inner vision. ‘I need to know what our enemies are up to. I need to gaze upon Makar.’

Carnelian felt uneasy. ‘But you might be seen, perhaps captured.’

Osidian shook his head, slowly, still lost in his vision. ‘I shall travel with but one companion, humbly, upon the road.’

‘Morunasa?’

Osidian nodded. ‘With him at my side, my height will not mark me as more than just another Marula.’

Carnelian could see Osidian would not be dissuaded. ‘And the huimur?’

‘You will take them west until you come within sight of the towers of the Great South Road. There you will await my return.’

Carnelian considered the power Osidian was putting in his hands. How easy it would be to betray him. That thought was bittersweet, but he decided he must hold to his strategy: Osidian’s rebellion must be big enough that, in contrast, the part the Plainsmen and the Lepers had played in it would appear diminished. He raised his hand in assent.

When Carnelian woke, Osidian was gone. He rose and the legion came awake with him in the dawn. He could read the Lesser Chosen commanders’ uncertainty in the cast of their bodies, but chose to ignore it and banished them to their towers with a gesture. He sought out his officers and told them they would guide Earth-is-Strong as if he were sitting in her command chair. He assured them they would suffer no punishment for this infringement of legionary law, then he dismissed them, insisting that, throughout the day, they should stay within direct signal range of Heart-of-Thunder. Soon he was mounting the ladder up into Osidian’s tower. Once seated in Osidian’s chair, he sent commands flashing round the ring of dragons. Turning Heart-of-Thunder into his own shadow, Carnelian led them west.

It became hard to believe they were moving at all. Certainly, the grid of trackways gave an impression of forward movement but, every time they reached an intersection, with its identical overseer tower and the ring of the kraal behind it, it seemed they had merely returned to the same spot they had been in before. Dusty hri fields formed dun rectangles edged by the trackways. Sartlar laboured beneath the withering sun. Sometimes he would watch a gang of them jogging along the thread of a track. That would stir harsh memories of slavery and loss. He would turn away, letting the land blur, allowing the sway of the cabin to seduce him into thinking he was bobbing on a gentle swell. The sartlar became invisible to him, merging into the dull monotony of the land. Space lost its meaning. Time alone was perceptible. An eternity of it ruled by the tyrannous sun that made each overseer tower shrink and grow its arm of shadow.

In the evenings the meaningless vastness of the world contracted to the space within the laager. With darkness his world shrank to the smoky interior of his pavilion. Harried by doubt he would seek escape in sleep, but when this came at last he would be drawn down dark paths into the underworld of dream.

On the afternoon of the fourth day since Osidian had left with Morunasa, Carnelian was woken from a nodding half-slumber by his Lefthand. ‘I dared to think the Master would wish to be woken.’ The man glanced at the Righthand. ‘We risked bringing the dragon to a halt.’