Ricardo Pinto - The Standing Dead

A thunderclap shook the room. The first gustings of a gale were catching in the angles of the walls and roofs outside. Carnelian rolled his eyes up to search for the black massing of Osidian's urn, but no shadow had a belly curve. With a cold flush, he began to fear that his cries might have woken him into the same suffering. Surely if Osidian were awake he would have made some response. The rattlings and whistling of the gathering storm were merging into a single voice.

Osidian hears you but is keeping silent.

Why does he keep silent? He's not dead! Carnelian sounded the words over and over again in his mind. Angry then? Yes, better that he should be angry. But not with me, not angry with me. Why should he be angry with me?

Why not? the storm said. Wasn't it you who put him in the urn, who cheated him of his life, his destiny?

The venom of what the sybling Hanuses had said to him infused into his heart. Their two faces swayed sneering down at him from their single head. He tried to squeeze the poison out by blaming the Dowager Empress, Ykoriana, whose creatures the syblings were; by blaming the Lord Jaspar who had conspired with her, but it did not appease the nagging of the storm. You persuaded Osidian against his judgement down into the wilds of the Yden far from all protection. Ykoriana's henchmen only had to follow you to capture him. You have betrayed not only your beloved, but your father and all your people. It was always thus. All whom you have loved, you have betrayed.

As the storm tore the world apart, Carnelian could not wedge his head deeply enough between his knees to shut it out.

A tremor of footfalls jerked Carnelian free of a gnawing half-slumber. Some rays of light, a cry of surprise, the wind of something rushing up. He caught a glimpse of the Ichorian's tattoo-shadowed face, then felt the judder of the man's fists clamping to the rim of the urn. As Carnelian was lifted upright, it seemed to him the plaster ceiling was falling.

'You shouldn't have done that,' the Ichorian said.

Carnelian was grateful for the human tones that stripped the storm of its voice.

The Ichorian moved away, then Carnelian heard the grinding as a lid was slid off another urn.

'M-Master…' the Ichorian's voice trembled. His face returned to hover above Carnelian. The man seemed shaken. His gaze fell on Carnelian.

'I've arranged passage for us. It was hard, dangerous, but what's to come will be more dangerous still. I'm going to have to bind the lid closed.'

He stood back.

'Don't either of you even think of making a sound,' he said, shrilly. 'I've hired deaf mutes as porters. Be certain of this: if I hear even a sigh, I'll tip you both from the boat. You'll drop to the lake bottom and be drowned.'

He grunted as he hoisted the lid and perched it on the lip of Carnelian's urn.

'I'll be going with you all the way.'

The lid forced Carnelian's head down. As the Ichorian secured the lid with ropes, he kept up a chatter, his voice muffled: 'I've nothing to lose now. I'm leaving everything behind, even my slave. That way, no one will think I'm going away, not if I leave everything behind. It's the best thing to do. It's the only thing to do.'

A kick on the urn wall caused Carnelian's back to spasm.

'I only need one of you to sell, so don't imagine that I won't drown the other if I have to.'

Curled in the stinking dark, Carnelian felt the poles rasp by his head as they slid through the carrying handles. As he was swung into the air, the earthenware ground the raw meat of his back and feet. Bouncing on the flex of the carrying poles, he chewed his tongue until his mouth filled with the iron taste of blood.

At last, the urn was put down. When the agony had abated, he became aware of the swaying of a boat. With a judder, they set off. He tried to ignore the itch, the aching, his skinned flesh squelching in his own filth. Cries skimmed over him like gulls. Sometimes there would be a clamorous buzzing and his mind's eye would be assaulted by a vision of people climbing steps from the water up into the tenements of the city. Hubbubs vibrated past. When the boat clunked into others there were singing curses, or threats; once, a greeting.

Even through the earthenware, he began to feel the dawn. As they slipped in and out of shadow, the sun warmed and cooled the urn wall. Gradually, his world grew so hot that he began to hope he might die cooked in its oven. He was cheated even of that. With a rustling something covered the urn and the heat soon ebbed away.

Carnelian's world shattered, tumbling him into dust. The air was screaming. Men were quarrelling. It took time for him to realize he was free. He sucked at the wind with a gasp that relaxed every joint in his body. His spine uncoiling sent a knife filleting all the way up his back. His eyes tore open. Even as he saw the roiling sky, he was dazzled blind.

A voice shrieked: 'You didn't tell us what they were.'

Caught between gulping at the air and the rub of grit into his raw back, Carnelian flopped onto his belly. After the urn wall, the ground was kind.

'Masters! You've killed us all! They're Masters!'

Carnelian lifted his head and it became a keel in the flowing air. The world was rolling blackness. Dust pelted him. A lightning flash fixed a scene of more than a dozen men standing round him and, against the sky's torment, a broken youth glowing white.

'Osidian.' The word had hardly vibrated Carnelian's throat before the wind snatched it away. The dark fence of men recoiled as he rolled onto his knees. He sensed their cowering but it was Osidian who was the heart of his gaze. Carnelian rose, tottered unused to his legs, stumbled a few steps, then fell kneeling at Osidian's side. He reached up to touch an icy shoulder. More lightning showed him the wounds up his lover's back.

'Osidian,' he moaned and reached out to lift him. 'Beloved.' He pulled at his shoulders but Osidian refused even to lift his head.

'We must tie them up,' said a voice Carnelian knew to be the Ichorian's. He sensed the men circling and stood to face them. Their eyes caught the glare of lightning his skin cast over them as if from a mirror. As they shambled closer, he could smell their animal fear, could hear it in their voices as they incited each other on.

One braver than the rest reached out to touch him. Carnelian struck the hand away. More came up and he spun round striking out. Their terror ignited into rage and they threw themselves upon him. As their nails dug into his wounds he bayed at the stormy sky and threw them off with such fury that they backed away.

One produced a trembling flint knife. 'Let's butcher them.'

His companion gave him a sidelong look. 'Are you sure they can be killed?'

Th-they're Masters ' said another.

'Angels.' The word taut with awe.

The brave one showed his hand. 'I've got this angel's blood here beneath my nails. If they bleed, they'll die.'

Erupting through them, the Ichorian slapped the man's hand down. There'll be no killing,' he bellowed. 'Where's the profit in that?'

He turned his back on Carnelian and scanned their faces. 'You've seen them unmasked. Now you're all in this as deep as me. Do you really believe you can kill two Masters and get away with it? Spill their blood and it'll stain your hands so red the Masters will hunt you like lice.' He glanced back at Carnelian. 'Our only hope is to take them south and sell them there for enough bronze to make us all rich.'

The slavers were wavering.

'Bind them,' barked the Ichorian.

As they moved to obey him, Carnelian backed away until his heels touched Osidian. He fought fiercely but the slavers' assaults wore him down until, at last, he was forced to the ground, powerless to stop them putting ropes around his neck.

Carnelian's arms were lashed together from wrists to elbows. The ropes strangling him were each bound to an ankle to bend him like a bow. The Ichorian had made the slavers do this to disguise Carnelian's height. Bitumen had been painted on his skin to hide its whiteness.