The Scarred God Read online

  The Scarred God

  A Shaanti Novel

  Neil Beynon

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

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  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  ‘In the dark regions of the forest, where the oldest trees stand, if you listen carefully enough, you can hear them talk of a time when the suns did not bleed and the night sky was full of flecks of light, like gold scattered through rock. You can hear them weep as they talk of the hairless apes who came from the sand, bringing strange gods with them, who knocked the stars from the sky until only three remained, and of the family they cut down as they spread across the world like a disease. While it is true that there is no evidence to suggest stars were ever as plentiful as these decaying and corrupted records claim, there is no doubt that our ancient distrust of the world of men is rooted in some calamity that coincided with their arrival in our lands and drove those trees mad.’

  - Tream historian Jeylin

  Prologue

  The stranger came on the last day that Moluc was ever to call himself a priest. Moluc watched the man enter the stone temple with the rest of the small congregation and take a seat on one of the middle benches. They were smooth, polished pieces of rock that had been glazed to stop them leaving white stone dust on their occupants, the wider temple being made of matt white rock that was dusty to the touch, carved out of the hillside into a dome. The clever acoustics of the temple bounced sound around the chamber with ease, making even the smallest of gatherings feel larger, amplifying any noise from sacrifices. The arching ceiling made the place feel oversized. The extra space made the room cool and dry. The raised areas could just have easily served as a seat for a much larger being. There were no depictions of the stone god. It was forbidden.

  That Moluc did not know this man was strange. These days, so few people believed, Moluc knew every follower by name. Every few weeks, the number of believers decreased. A new follower had not been seen since before the king had died. Murdered, thought Moluc, correcting himself, the king was murdered by his son, the new king, Montu.

  The stranger was taller by a head than anyone else in the temple. The Kurah were not a small people. The man was as close to a giant as Moluc had ever seen, and his wild curls fell in all directions. When Moluc squinted, the blurring of his vision made it seem as if the man had antlers. The man’s face was what made the priest really stare. His skin was covered in the most elaborate of tattoos. They weren’t the swirling, colourful ink of the Shaanti but the runes, glyphs and letters of at least four nations. When the stranger moved, the tattoos moved and flowed and reconfigured. Moluc could not read any of it, but he suspected the tattoos ran all over the man’s body.

  Moluc looked around for the high priest but could not see him. The welcoming of a new follower was a critical step in conversion, and so the job of greeting the giant fell to him. The stranger did not look approachable. He stared straight ahead at the glazed lattice of channels around the sacrificial dais at the front of the temple. The man appeared to be staring intently at something on the raised platform. Moluc could not decide what had captured the visitor’s attention so. He approached the man slowly in case the stranger decided to leave or lunge at him. He had the bearing of a warrior, and Moluc had no desire to fight.

  ‘Welcome, my son,’ said Moluc.

  The stranger looked at him as if he were an ant. It was the briefest of glances before the man returned his gaze to the dais.

  ‘Welcome to the temple of the stone god, Ku. You are new here?’

  The man raised an eyebrow. ‘I have not been here in some time, but I am not new.’

  His voice was deep. Moluc could feel the words vibrate in his spine.

  Moluc smiled. ‘But always welcome back. What brings you here?’

  ‘Murder,’ replied the stranger.

  Moluc felt his stomach flip over. The view of the population was turning against the sacrifices, and he had been accosted before over the practice. But they had never been so bold as to enter the temple. Still, he might not mean to kill Moluc.

  ‘I am sorry for your loss,’ Moluc replied, hoping the stranger was not a priest-hater.

  ‘I don’t hate you, believer,’ said the man. ‘Quite the opposite. I love all you little monkeys who believe in magic.’

  Moluc frowned. He had not spoken his fear aloud, but the man had answered his thought as if he had heard it.

  The temple vibrated. The noise was low, almost imperceptible, and if it had not been for the dust from the rock above, they might have missed the sound. It wasn’t a single crash but a repeating thump-thump that sent dust down. If the benches and the sacrificial areas had not been glazed, the dust would have risen up from the floor as well. The noise was growing louder as the thump-thump drew closer, until Moluc realised it was the marching of warriors.

  ‘They are here,’ said the stranger.

  Moluc looked at the man. Up close his features seemed to have been carved from wood. His eyes were as piercing a blue as the sky outside. He was clearly younger than Moluc, and yet he felt but a child next to this warrior.

  ‘Who are here?’

  The stranger stood and moved past the priest, towards the entrance to the temple.

  ‘No, wait,’ called Moluc after him.

  But the stranger wasn’t leaving. The other four people in the congregation turned to look at the scene that was developing.

  The stranger did not care. He looked at nothing but the door as he strode up to it, clasped the handle and pulled.

  There was a king in the doorway.

  Montu was dressed in leather leggings, a white tunic and a purple cloak. A simple bronze circle on his brow indicated his rank. The king removed his black riding gloves and adjusted his sword, Polestar, on his back. The king nodded at the stranger.

  Moluc dropped to his knee. The priest’s heart felt like it had stopped with the shock of seeing his monarch in the doorway. This was not good. The king was no friend of Ku.

  ‘It is here,’ said the stranger.

  The king glanced around the room, taking in the occupants and the temple as if they were one and the same. He folded his arms.

  ‘I do not see him, Cernubus. This is just a temple like all the others.’

  Moluc looked at the stranger. ‘Your name is Cernubus, like the Shaanti god?’

  The stranger turned to the priest. ‘You know your gods, believer. Most Shaanti do not remember that Cernubus was a god of their people when the world was young.’

  Moluc could see gold flecks in the blue of the man’s eyes. They looked like the pinholes of light that the sentinels gave off in the ni
ght sky.

  ‘Cernubus, where is it?’ asked Montu, moving further into the temple. Kurah warriors filed into the chamber behind him, swords drawn and eyes on Moluc and the stranger.

  Cernubus looked away from Moluc and pointed to the sacrificial dais. He muttered in a language that Moluc did not understand but might have been that of the river worshippers in the icy southern continent. There was a grinding noise that made the priest and the king put their hands over their ears. It sounded as if the universe had been pulled apart. The warriors shifted and lifted their weapons.

  Moluc turned to the dais.

  The creature was gargantuan. At least twice the size of the stranger, the thing filled the end of the chamber in its seated position. The beast looked balefully at them. The being appeared to be made of rock that might once have been man-shaped but was now just a grotesque memory, almost featureless. A clumsy thing.

  Moluc did not have depictions of Ku in his temple, but he knew what he looked like, and to see the god sitting across from him nearly undid the priest. It can’t be. Gods are metaphors.

  ‘The thing about metaphors,’ said Cernubus, ‘is they are based on something real.’

  ‘Go on, then,’ said Montu. ‘Kill it.’

  Moluc turned to the king. I am going to die, he thought. His Majesty is going to sweep us away.

  Cernubus stared hard at the young monarch. Montu did not look away.

  ‘Our agreement stands?’ asked Cernubus.

  Montu nodded. ‘You get all of them.’

  ‘And the forest?’

  Montu nodded again.

  ‘Give me your sword,’ said Cernubus.

  The king drew Polestar and passed the weapon to the stranger without hesitation.

  ‘Now, Moluc,’ said Cernubus, moving further into the room. Moluc did not know how he knew his name. ‘I’m afraid I must reduce your congregation further.’

  The stranger threw the sword in an arc that sent the blade spinning through the air, almost faster than the eye could see, striking the first parishioner, a tailor called Jeren, and beheading him. The man’s arterial blood painted the ceiling of the temple crimson as the sword spun on, beheading an old woman called Jasmine, and cutting down the other two worshippers before returning hilt first to the stranger’s hands. An impossible throw.

  Moluc stared at the scene of the massacre.

  ‘There is little you could have done,’ said Cernubus, his voice soft. ‘You don’t really believe in this one.’ He kicked the stone god’s leg; the god looked mournfully at him. ‘You know that it is all a trick. You have seen behind the veil.’

  Moluc did not answer.

  ‘Enough,’ said Montu. ‘Get on with it.’

  Cernubus smiled. ‘You must leave first.’

  Montu frowned. ‘Why?’

  Cernubus shook his head. ‘The god must be alone for me to kill it. It’s complicated. You will have your proof.’

  Montu looked at the god and then back at Cernubus. He pointed at the stranger. ‘Proof, or no deal.’

  Cernubus watched the king leave, along with the warriors, before he turned to Moluc.

  ‘Would you like to see your god destroyed?’

  Moluc did not answer. He thought he was going to die, and he very much wanted to live. There was so much he hadn’t done yet. Why had he wasted his life here in this dusty temple? There was a whole world out there: beautiful women, handsome men and a plethora of sights he had never laid eyes on.

  ‘I will show you wonder right here,’ said Cernubus. ‘And you will see it is terrible. I will give you a new faith.’

  Cernubus snarled and leapt onto the stone god. The man’s momentum carried Ku backwards to the floor of the dais. Cernubus lifted both his hands up and brought them together before thrusting them down into the chest of the stone god. Ku screamed. The high-pitched howl felt to Moluc like it had split his eardrums.

  Cernubus looked at Moluc from atop the prone god, covered in dust and golden blood, and grinned at the priest. He withdrew his arms from Ku’s broken chest, clutching a fistful of stone in his hand that he lifted up to the light. The rock was pulsing amber in a slowing beat, casting fire from the golden blood onto the temple ceiling. Cernubus crushed the heart into dust with his right hand, and the god stopped screaming. All was silent.

  Cernubus spoke in Moluc’s head. Are you not awestruck? Behold, I have slain your god.

  Cernubus smacked his hands clean, leant over and grabbed the god’s head. He strained until his biceps seemed as if they would burst through his jerkin. The god’s head came free of his body, and Cernubus hooked it under one arm.

  Proof, he explained in the priest’s head. Now go, out the back door, and tell the people how Cernubus has slain the stone god. Tell them I am returned.

  Moluc hesitated. Was this a trick? Surely, if he lets me go, I could come back with warriors and kill him in the same way.

  No, you could not. I am already stronger than any other: my power does not come solely from the monkeys any more. Do my bidding. Remember, there is nowhere I cannot find you.

  Moluc watched as the tattooed stranger, this scarred god, walked out of the temple into the light, with the head of the stone god under one arm.

  Chapter One

  The Kurah chased the wounded girl across the hills towards the forest.

  The path Anya took over the parched mud and sparse grass of the Barrens was anything but random. The Rift Forest offered a slim chance of survival if she could only make the treeline. She dared not look back, but in her more hopeful moments, she thought it sounded as if the number of men behind her had lessened. They were afraid of the forest. She pushed herself as hard as she could, her calves and knees burning with the effort, and her right thigh screaming with the wound she had taken when escaping.

  An arrow slammed into the earth just ahead of Anya. She stumbled and fell. It was tempting to lie there, to let the men capture her, and face whatever punishment they deemed fit to issue. Another voice – the woman who had abandoned her – buried deep in her memory, whispered at her not to be so weak. She knew what happened to Kurah prisoners of war. She knew what would happen to the others if she didn’t make it. No, she wouldn’t think about that, just focus on the next step. The Kurah probably think they are doing us an honour.

  Anya looked up. The forest was little more than a few hundred yards away. Another arrow flew. This one embedded itself in her hand. The pain was incandescent.

  Howling, she pushed herself up from the ground with her good hand and ran with all the fury she had left. The arrow had done her a favour, woken her up when she was nearly ready to die. The pain had reminded her she was alive and had a job to do. Anya crashed through the wood without thought or reason, her gait loping from the thigh wound, and her clothes wet with blood that was not all her own. There were shouts behind her. Some of the Kurah had come into the forest despite the legends. They would brave the ghosts for a chance at revenge. Anya’s only hope now lay in hiding. She felt the throbbing pain in her hand with acute irritation – if only she could climb. A wolf howled in the distance.

  The trees seemed to have turned against her, determined to inflict more damage: their branches and undergrowth whipped her body. Moving her lead-like limbs was an effort that drew tears as she continued to pound through the woods. Would the wolves make a better end of me than the Kurah? It would be quicker, surely?

  ‘And dying would make up for getting me killed, right?’ The ghost of Fin looked across at Anya, keeping easy pace alongside her, as she ran for her life.

  An arrow thunked into the wood of the tree next to her. She changed direction and ducked as best she could. There was thicker foliage in this direction. Faintly she thought there was also a smell of smoke on the air. Her stomach sank – had they set the forest alight?

  Another wolf howled. This one sounded closer.

  The cursing from the Kurah got louder. She didn’t understand it. Anya ran on, as fast as she could, hoping they couldn’t see her. D
istracted, she missed her step, her foot catching on a knotted tree root and sending her sprawling.

  In the darkness of this heavier part of the forest, she could hear men scouting, trying to find her. Whether because of her woodsmanship or the thickness of the undergrowth, the Kurah sounded as if they were going in the wrong direction. She put her hands out, ignoring as best she could the flame in her wounded right hand, and pushed.

  Anya got up. Her ankle felt like the joint had exploded. She wobbled and fell down, striking her head on a rock. There was a moment – perhaps two – where she tried very hard to remain conscious, but the darkness came out from the pulsing pain and pulled her down into the black …

  … A voice … No, that wasn’t right. More like a moving picture in her mind. She was looking at herself as she called over to the guard, aware of what she was risking as she mocked him just enough to draw him in. As she pulled her hair over to one side, his interest was piqued. The others in the cage pleaded with her to stop. She refused. The stakes were too high. The two guards drew nearer, egged on by the others, who stood further away at the edge of the camp, where they could relax.

  The younger, brasher guard opened the cage. She watched herself wait until they had both come in, blocking the entrance from any help from outside. The two guards were too close to have been expecting what was about to happen. She had not yet taken the ink, and so there was no clue she was anything other than an Shaanti maid. She watched herself attack the younger one. He was stronger than she had expected. The fight wasn’t a smooth kill like she had practised in sparring, when all had been pretending. It was untidy and improvised. She watched herself headbutt him, and his dagger slipped into her hand as he reeled in shock. She had taken two attempts to find the gap in his armour before she had been able to force the blade in between his ribs for the killing blow. He had called at her to stop. She had felt his heart yield against the blade before he slumped to the ground. He looked even younger in that moment … a boy.