Ricardo Pinto - The Third God

He watched them pale beneath their masks of filth. With the back of her hand Poppy stirred the cedar needles she had ochred. Fern let his mattock slide to the earth, his gaze rising blind up into the canopy. Carnelian went on to explain what he thought Osidian wanted with the salt and felt guilty relief as he spilled his worry out. ‘And so we must do what we can to destroy it.’

Fern impaled him with his dark eyes. ‘What does that matter when the Standing Dead are going to turn everything to ash?’

‘What does Hookfork want with us?’ Poppy said, her childish distress making Carnelian feel he had been wrong after all to let her stay.

‘He wants the Master.’

‘Why?’

Carnelian could not deny the plea in her eyes. ‘Because Hookfork seeks to use the Master against the God in the Mountain.’

Fern’s face twisted and he let out a groan. ‘I don’t understand. How…?’

Preparing to answer that, Carnelian felt how deep had been his betrayal of these people whom he loved. ‘Because he’s the brother of the God in the Mountain who, treacherously, set himself up in his place.’

The mattock toppled to the ground. Fern sank down open-mouthed. Poppy simply stared. Carnelian watched as the truth of it slowly sank in. Shock turned to agony as Fern realized the part he had played in bringing Osidian and Carnelian into the Earthsky. Carnelian could not let him bear this alone. He reached out, but did not feel he could touch him. ‘It was my fault. I kept this from you. I never imagined it would come to this. I was blind. I’ve always been blind.’ The enormity of his failure made his words run dry.

They sat like boulders until Poppy spoke. ‘So we must give Hookfork what he wants and then he’ll go away.’

As Carnelian nodded, a cold expression came over Fern’s face. ‘We’ll give him a mutilated corpse.’

Carnelian grimaced. ‘Dead, the Master’s a blunted weapon.’

He tried to explain the politics of Osrakum, but, sitting there amid the rotting dead, even to him it was all incomprehensible. He ended up assuring them that, if Osidian returned to Osrakum, he would be unable to escape the rituals requiring his death. ‘And this might turn the eyes of the Standing Dead away from the Earthsky.’

Silence fell again as they all stared blindly, tortured by guilt, by regrets, by grief. Carnelian, sickened, knew he must tell them the rest of it. He did not want to, but it was such weakness that had brought them there. He tried again to find a way round it, but the certainty of Aurum’s retribution was as solid as the massacre surrounding him. ‘Most likely this will not save the Master’s tribes.’

Poppy stabbed him with a look of pure horror. ‘Why not?’

Carnelian cast around for some way to make it clear. ‘Because Hookfork’s at least as cruel as the Master. He’ll see the defiance of the Plainsmen as an affront to his pride. He’ll feel…’ Corpse stench was the air they breathed. ‘As the Master did here he’ll feel the need to avenge the insult to the Standing Dead of your familiarity with him… with us.’

He bowed his head. He thought of telling them the Wise might yet restrict Aurum’s retribution, but he was sick of peddling false hope. He recoiled as Poppy touched his arm. The look of love in her face released his tears. ‘I don’t deserve…’

She gripped his arm. ‘They won’t leave you with us, will they?’

He wanted to tell her that Osidian would reveal to Aurum that he was here, that if he returned to Osrakum he could accuse Ykoriana and Molochite, that he would strive to curb Aurum’s holocaust, but, ultimately, all he did was shake his head. He wiped his eyes. ‘The most that can be done is to bring what’s left of the tribes back into submission to the Standing Dead.’

Poppy squeezed his arm. ‘Is that why you want to destroy the salt, Carnie?’

He nodded. ‘Otherwise who’d go into service in the legions?’

‘How do we take the Master alive?’

Carnelian looked at her, then at Fern who was scowling, kneading one foot. ‘With Morunasa’s help.’

Poppy’s mouth became a line and Fern’s scowl deepened. She gave a slight nod. ‘And the salt?’

‘Krow’s our best hope there.’

Poppy looked surprised. ‘You really think he’ll help us?’

‘I don’t know, but I believe his heart’s not the Master’s.’ Carnelian gazed at Fern, so still, so quiet. ‘Though it would be a grim and thankless task, you could play an important part in bringing the tribes back into submission.’

Fern raised his eyes. ‘You really believe they’d listen to me, who brought this plague among them?’

Carnelian felt Fern’s anguish like a knife. ‘You’ve atoned for whatever mistakes you might have made. None will gainsay this. Your voice will be free from tribal dependence and will carry weight because of your undeniable loss.’

A wind came from the east and stirred the mother trees to murmuring.

Poppy looked distraught. ‘Carnie, is there really no way at all you can see how we might avoid more deaths?’

Desolate, Carnelian shook his head. ‘No way at all.’

Hollow-eyed, they struggled to complete the burials. The Maruli stayed away from them. Carnelian noticed him, as did Poppy, but if Fern did he gave no sign. It would have made sense to have the man help them, but no one had forgotten Fern’s threat.

When darkness forced them to stop they returned, weary, to Akaisha’s hearth. It was Carnelian’s turn to make the stew. The evening was growing cold and they huddled round the fire for warmth. Stirring the pot, Carnelian had noticed the Maruli creep up the rootstair where he had been crouched for some time. He felt sorry for him. When the stew was done, Carnelian gave a bowl of it to Poppy and one to Fern, then rose with another cradled in his hands.

‘Where’re you going?’ demanded Fern.

Carnelian indicated the man sitting on the rootstair. ‘Since I’m sure he’s not welcome at our fire I’m going to give him something to warm him up.’

He did not wait for more, but took the bowl to the Maruli. The man looked up as he approached. His grin was bright as he accepted the bowl. He put it down carefully then turned back and ran his finger twice across his brow. Carnelian did not understand. The man repeated the action. The Maruli was making the sign for ten. Carnelian had daubed numbers on the foreheads of Marula to help train them to fight in hornwalls. He nodded, smiling, and struck himself on the chest. ‘Carnie.’ He pointed at the man with a questioning nod. The Maruli frowned, then grinned and, placing his hand on his beaded corselet, uttered a syllable.

‘Sthax,’ echoed Carnelian as best he could.

‘Carnie,’ the man said and both smiled.

Carnelian returned to the fire to find Fern gone, his bowl on the ground untouched.

Looking miserable, Poppy pointed up towards the Crag.

He found him on the summit: a man shaped from the same darkness as the night. Approaching, he became aware of the focus of Fern’s stillness. Carnelian looked out into the blackness. A sky alive with stars overlay the earth’s void. He watched, puzzled, but then there was a flicker along the northern horizon. Then another. Dragonfire!

He turned to peer at Fern. His profile was clear enough. Carnelian quelled an impulse to embrace him.

Fern shifted. ‘Tomorrow we have to finish.’

Carnelian lingered after Fern left, gazing north, brooding over what was coming their way.

Just before dawn, Carnelian and Fern went to gauge how much was left to be done. Fully three hearths remained. The stinking, rotting masses hanging seemed never to have been people. Both would have liked to walk away. The thought of touching them was unbearable. They returned to their hearth and discussed it with Poppy over breakfast.