Ian Irvine - Tetrarch

‘Like everyone here,’ sneered Colm. ‘The camp is full of cowards. Even my father ran when the lyrinx came.’

‘My father didn’t,’ said Nish, ‘but I wish he had. A lyrinx ripped his face open and tore his arm so badly that we had to cut it off.’ He clenched his fist, grimaced and examined it in the dim light. There was a blister the width of his palm, and smaller ones along his fingers.

Now Colm was positively awe-stricken. ‘Was that where you wiped the venom off?’

‘No, that’s where I pulled red-hot coals out of the brazier to set fire to the beast.’

Colm went quiet. Nish looked out through the crack but the yard was empty. All he saw was beaten earth and mud. There was not even a weed to be seen. Everything burnable had been burnt, and everything edible, eaten.

‘I’ve been praying for a real hero,’ the boy said softly. ‘We really need help, Nish. Our home is gone, where we lived for more than a thousand years. We’ve even lost our Histories, all but what mother and father remember, and they won’t talk about it any more. They’ve given up! I hate them sometimes. Why won’t they fight? Will you help us, Nish?’

‘I’m on a secret mission,’ Nish replied, thinking fast. He needed aid and only this lad, and his parents, could give it. However, the island of Meldorin was swarming with lyrinx, and anyone who went there would be eaten. ‘For the scrutator! I’m sorry, Colm. It’s the war.’

‘Of course,’ Colm said dully. ‘I understand. Where were you going?’

‘I can’t tell you that. But there is something you can do for me.’

The boy’s eyes were shining. ‘But you’re a hero.’

‘I’ve lost my balloon, and those thieves stole everything I own. I’ve got to get out of here and … do my job.’

‘Of course I’ll help you. I’ll do anything. And in return …’ He caught Nish’s eye, a desperately young lad. ‘In return, when all this is over, will you help me get back my heritage?’

What could Nish say? ‘I give you my word, Colm. When the war is over, I will help you.’ He held out his hand. The lad took it and there were tears of gratitude in his eyes. ‘But first, I have to get out of this place.’

‘The guards won’t let anyone go.’

‘I’ll tell them who I am. That will make them sit up.’

‘Do you have papers or a special pass?’

Nish had nothing. Most of his gear had been lost when the basket burned; the rest stolen the instant he arrived. ‘No, but I represent the scrutator.’

‘Not ours! They don’t like foreigners in this country and the guards have heard every story in the world. They won’t listen. They’ll just beat you senseless and throw you in the mud. They say we should have been left to the lyrinx.’

‘People must come in and out, in a camp this big.’

‘Only soldiers. Sometimes they take the young women out, but they don’t bring them back. My big sister is hiding.’

Nish could imagine why, all too well. The war was tearing society apart and in places like this the only thing that mattered was power. Getting it and keeping it.

‘Perhaps I could dress up as a woman,’ Nish said, half-joking.

Colm inspected Nish’s swollen face and sturdy body. ‘They wouldn’t take you , Nish.’

I deserved that, Nish thought. ‘Could I dig my way out?’

‘The soil is only this deep.’ Colm spread his fingers. ‘And under it, there’s rock.’

‘What about over the fence?’

‘The guards hang the bodies on the spikes. After they’ve finished with them.’

Nish shivered. His options were rapidly running out. ‘Do your mother and father know anyone important?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said the boy. ‘I’ll take you to meet them when it’s dark. It’s not safe in daytime. You haven’t got a sign.’

‘A sign?’

Colm held out his hand. On the back was a red, raised scar of jagged lines, like a jumble of triangles.

‘Did the guards do that to you?’

Colm nodded. ‘They did it to everyone, even the babies. With quicklime!’

‘It must have hurt.’

‘It still does, sometimes, and that was six months ago.’

‘You’ve been here six months? ’

‘Yes, but we lost our home a long time before that. On my ninth birthday.’

‘How old are you now, Colm?’

‘Twelve and a half. I can join the army when I’m fourteen, if I’m big enough.’

‘Don’t be in too much of a hurry,’ said Nish.

‘I’ll be signing up on my birthday,’ said the boy proudly. ‘We have to fight for what is ours, else we may as well lie down and die.’

Nish felt a thousand years old, though he was only twenty. Colm would be sent to the front with minimal training and would probably be dead in a month. The tragedy had been played out a million times and was not going to end until humanity was no more. Well, perhaps what he, Nish, knew might make the difference, if only he could get out of here and find someone in authority.

From not far away came the barking of hounds. Someone screamed. ‘Come on!’ said Colm. ‘They’ve brought the dogs in. If they catch us, they’ll beat us half to death.’

Nish wormed his way out, the boy beside him. ‘Where are we going?’

Colm had his head around the corner. ‘It’s clear. Follow me.’

They ran a zigzag path between the hovels, Nish doing exactly as the boy told him to. Everything stank here. They dropped into a gully running with human waste, leapt the brown stream and continued along the other side. The ground was bare apart from bright-green, slimy strands of algae growing in the flow. Further down, Colm ducked into an embayment where a flood had undercut the bank, leaving a hollow the size of a small barrel.

‘This isn’t much of a hiding place,’ Nish said doubtfully.

Colm dug a chip of stone out of the wall with one finger, tossed it aside and excavated another. ‘We’ll only be here a minute. Give me your hand.’

Nish held it out. Colm turned the chip of stone around until he had a sharp edge and scored it across the back of Nish’s hand.

Nish yelped and tore his hand away. ‘What are you doing?’

‘You’ve got to have a mark,’ said the boy. ‘Without it, you’re nothing !’

Nish gave him his hand. The boy pressed harder, making a series of bloody cuts. Nish flinched.

‘It’s only a scratch,’ Colm said scornfully.

‘Heroes still feel pain, Colm.’

When it was done, Colm dabbed the surplus blood away, comparing the marks with the raised red welts on the back of his own hand. ‘It’s not very good, but it will probably look like the real thing, from a distance.’

‘What if they check it and discover it’s not?’

‘You could run for your life, but it’ll be worse when they catch you. Best thing is to just take the beating.’

‘Why do the guards hate us so much?’ Already Nish felt it was ‘us’ and ‘them’.

‘It’s not the guards who will beat you in the workhouse. It’s the boss refugees. They don’t want any attention, in case their own schemes are found out.’

They were off again, up the stinking gully, then towards a large ramshackle building made of reused timber. It looked as if a dozen houses, all different, had been pulled down to make it. A sentry, dressed in clothes as ragged and filthy as the boy’s, stood outside.

‘How do we get in?’ Nish hissed.

Colm did not answer but, after checking that the sentry was not looking, darted across the space between the gully and the side of the building, lifted a couple of loose boards and wriggled inside.

Nish only just managed it, his shoulders being as wide as the opening. He emerged in a gloomy space with timbers running along above his head, and more in front of him. Beyond were dozens of pairs of dirty feet. He was under a wide workbench that ran along the side of the building.