Ricardo Pinto - The Standing Dead

Sartlar crowding round Carnelian stank. Lightning revealed glimpses of their distorted shapes. Overcome with loathing and horror, Carnelian tried to back away, shamed at even being touched by the half-men slaves. Their inertness calmed him. He crouched, trying to get his fingers to the knots around his neck, but could not find an angle that would allow his joined arms to reach them. A knifing flash. For an instant, he saw the tarred wood of Osidian's wretched face. Carnelian became possessed by rage. He struggled frantically to unbend, to snap the ropes. Tightening, they tamed him, choking off his cries.

He let his head drop, centred himself. When the world lit again, he found a space beside Osidian's body and, kneeling, rolled into it. Enduring the pain, he shuffled round onto his side and managed to get his hands to Osidian's face. He rubbed at the bitumen, trying to reveal the beautiful face beneath. It was futile. Osidian's skin was canvas. Even through the tar on lips and teeth Carnelian could taste the salt of his tears. He rolled Osidian's head into his lap and rocked him back and forth, mumbling one of his nurse Eben’s lullabies.

All through that shuddering night, Carnelian cradled Osidian, while the bitumen pulled his skin so taut he believed it must tear. The coarse, twisted bodies of the sartlar shoved against them. Each time the sky roared, Carnelian felt their trembling. The silence in-between was hissing earache.

As the lightning became intermittent, he began to feel the weight of the sky. Growling rumbled out from its black heart. A cooler wind was blowing. The waiting between thunderclaps left him raw. Osidian slept in his crooked embrace. Carnelian worked his mouth to ease the itching at the corners. The air was thickening, throbbing. Suddenly, with a final bellow, the sky opened. The air sighed relief. The earth spattered, pocked then pooled. The pools swelled to sheets foaming in all directions. Carnelian was blinded. Air had turned to water and he was drowning. Curled into each other, they were pebbles in a stream.

Bleating, the sartlar edged away. Thin light was seeping into the world. Carnelian had to bring his knees up to his chest to put enough slack in the ropes to allow him to lift his head and look around. Men were pushing through the sartlar towards him. Among them, only the Ichorian made no attempt to shelter from the rain. Water varnished his half-black skin. Carnelian bore the cutting of the ropes into his neck as he squinted up at the man's face. He could see the doubt in the man's eyes.

'Please stand up,' the Ichorian said. Carnelian watched the half-black lips hesitate over but not say the word 'Master'.

Leaning on his elbows, Carnelian managed to get his knees under him. He gathered his strength then jerked upright, but the tug of the ropes unbalanced him, making him fall back onto his knees.

Feet splashed approaching him.

'Stay back!' cried the Ichorian. 'Let him do it by himself.'

Carnelian tried again, this time bringing first one foot then the other under him, then he straightened his knees as much as he could and dug his elbows into his thighs for support. Two slavers brushed past him, barking orders. He twisted his head round enough to see Osidian still lying on the ground with the slavers over him.

'Get up,' one growled.

Carnelian watched the man jab a foot into Osidian's belly then draw back when he lifted his head to glare at them through his bitumen mask. When the slavers goaded him with their feet, Osidian closed his eyes and refused to budge. When they began kicking him, the Ichorian stopped them with a bellow. He made them hoist the Master onto his feet.

Osidian stood hunched, his head hanging. It agonized Carnelian. Then he became aware of the brooding mass framing Osidian, and his heart died. For he knew, within that mountain wall, the Wise and all the gathered Chosen were turning Molochite into the Gods while his brother, Osidian, whose place he had usurped, was trussed in the mud, an abject slave.

The slavers gagged the Masters and covered them with rags. The Ichorian ordered that the ropes securing their ankles to their throats should be loosened enough for them to walk. Each had a leash looped between the wrists which a slaver could use to pull them.

Strain as he might, Carnelian could not break the ropes. His leash tugged and he had to trot after it or else fall over. He soon found he had to bend even lower so as to put enough slack in the ropes to allow his legs to move freely. Sartlar jostled him on either side, their thick heels kicking mud up into his face. He was forced to look down, to watch his bitumened feet slipping and squelching through the mud. The sucking churn of sartlar feet drowned out the hiss of the rain. Soon, Carnelian's breath was rasping past the gag wedged into the corners of his mouth like a bit.

He lost his footing, plunged knees first into the ground, was kicked hard in the back, then crushed by a sartlar falling on top of him. The creature rolled to one side and Carnelian used his joined-up arms as a shield against the flailing spades of its feet. The leash jerked him up, forcing him to stumble back into a run. Sartlar closed around him.

Concentrating on maintaining a steady, sure-footed rhythm, Carnelian feared for Osidian. He managed to turn enough to look at him. He was there, running mechanically, his head down so that Carnelian was unable to see anything of his face. Peering through the loping mass of sartlar, Carnelian glimpsed the surface of the lake, its glass scratched to granite by the rain. He let his head drop, rested, then lifted it again searching for the City at the Gates, hoping to discover where they were. Boats and figures crowding the shore were shrouded in tarpaulins. Strain forced Carnelian to sink his head.

For a long while he thought of nothing but making his running smooth and sure. Then he found he was kicking through ridges wheels had left in the mud. Smoky charcoal cut through the dull odour of his bitumened skin, through the sartlar stench. Voices and the lowing of beasts carried through the storm. Glancing up, Carnelian saw carts and people dragging their way through the puddle-rutted quagmire of a stopping place. If he made a run for it surely he would be spotted, the alarm given and then he and Osidian would be freed. Feeling the ground hardening beneath his feet, he saw stone surfacing through the red earth. It was hard climbing the incline of a ramp. When the stone flattened out, they came to a halt. He propped his bound arms on one thigh and slowly released the tension in his back. He sensed something giant looming over him. Panting through his gag, he twisted his head round, screwing his eyes up against the rain. A watch-tower. The sight of it forking the clouds brought memories of those he had stayed in with his father on their journey to Osrakum. Hope flared as he scanned the tower heights, but no lookouts were spreadeagled in the hoops of its deadman's chairs.