The Scarred God Page 17

  The companions walked all through the morning, passing trees that seemed younger than those they had walked amongst in the Tream area, and were increasingly so the further they travelled. The forest was once again becoming sparse as it had done on the edge of the Corden. Anya tried hard not to think about why that was, but she could almost hear her grandfather telling her the legend as a little girl. Stay focused, her mother’s voice echoed round her head, prompting her to draw her cloak tighter despite the suns above.

  The woodsman and Akyar did not talk. In point of fact, Vedic didn’t seem to want to talk to her either. Periodically he would stop and bend down to look at the tracks and marks on the ground, pick up the dirt and rub it between his fingers, even place his hand on the odd tree. Anya did not know why he was so cautious: they had heard no wolves for some time, and she doubted they would see much life at all this close to the Morrigan’s lands.

  ‘We understood the Wound to be a wasteland where the Morrigan lived,’ said Akyar. ‘You seem to think there’s something else in there. Are you trying to trick me?’

  ‘And yet you are following,’ said Vedic.

  Akyar shook his head, but the woodsman did not look round.

  Anya put her hand on the Tream’s arm. ‘He’s following the legend.’ In the distance, her grandfather’s ghost looked at her, but she could not see the expression on his face.

  Akyar smiled back. It was a sad smile. She reminded herself that he was worried for his friend’s son, and he was also grieving for Pan. She pressed on – as much to settle her own nerves as to explain to the Tream.

  ‘When I was a child, my grandfather told me tales of the Morrigan. I think it was meant to be an allegory, though I never managed to determine what for. In all of those tales, there was only ever one way into the Morrigan’s actual realm, Golgotha, and that was through a tunnel in the Raized. Well, two ways – but dying would be counterproductive.’

  ‘I thought Golgotha was your underworld, a metaphor. How can we get there?’

  ‘I thought our gods were metaphors until a few days ago,’ said Anya, laughing.

  ‘But surely your grandfather …’

  Anya’s laughter faltered. ‘My grandfather was … unreliable as I grew up. Falkirk never talked about the war. None of them did.’

  ‘War’s only ever interesting to those who haven’t been in one,’ said Vedic. ‘The rest of us just want to forget.’

  Anya ignored him.

  ‘The Morrigan was not always mad. Once she was merely the guardian of Golgotha. We had more gods then; many have been forgotten.’

  Anya paused. Perhaps they had not been forgotten? Perhaps Cernubus had been quietly killing them, stealthily hunting them down through the ages.

  ‘Please continue,’ said Akyar. ‘I am the keeper of the records for the Tream, and I have only fragments regarding the Morrigan.’

  Anya smiled. ‘So, the story tells, a young god by the name of Bres, who was a cousin of Pan and one of his lesser-known acolytes, became fascinated by the Morrigan.

  ‘This was in the early times, as man spread across the lands, our beliefs forcing us apart until the first war with the forest. The Morrigan moved to a distant part of the woods in order to enjoy her time with Bres without threat or misadventure. She wanted him all to herself. Few gods love death. She is as old as Danu, and powerful.’

  ‘To the Wound … sorry … the Raized?’

  Anya nodded. ‘It was not called that then. Nor was that part of the forest in the gods’ territory. It was Tream land, and all across the forest, humans were taking land and clearing trees. We did not yet worship this place in the way we do today. Your people were alarmed at all of this, particularly the rate of destruction of the forest that had once swept all across this continent like a cloak. They demanded the gods stop the humans. The gods created us and so should have been able to rein us in, but the gods refused the Tream.’

  ‘Our records say the humans appeared from the desert and the gods came shortly afterwards,’ said Akyar.

  Anya paused. There was that statement again, about gods coming after the humans. The idea buzzed around her like a flea, making her skin itch and her head spin. She swatted away the thought.

  ‘The Tream left their parley with the gods in anger. They sent an emissary to the thain of the day, asking that he stop people encroaching on the forest. We did not always have leaders as wise as the woman who leads us now. The thain then was an arrogant man who sought to see the gods with his own eyes, which even then was forbidden, and so he demanded that the Tream send the messenger back with the words “If I am to desist, let Danu herself come forth and command me from her own lips.”

  ‘The Tream king flew into his own rage when he heard this, and declared war on the gods and the humans. They marched on all the places the gods used on the western side of the forest, and when they came to the Morrigan’s land, they found only Bres.

  ‘Kept away from humanity, and from the other gods, Bres was too weak to resist. What few followers he had were with him that day and slain – somehow the Tream were able to slay the immortal, cutting him to pieces with their swords. He took the final journey across Golgotha as all of us will do.

  ‘When the Morrigan felt his soul pass into Golgotha, she flew into her own rage, and it was like the giant spring storms in the south. She burst through the ground beneath the Raized, where the Tream still were, and destroyed the trees for miles around, killing every living thing in the area – Tream, wildlife, insects, everything. She salted the earth with her tears, preventing anything from growing there for centuries to come.’

  ‘If everyone died, how did anyone know?’

  ‘A Tream was found dying by a boy who had been close enough to see but far enough away to survive. He passed on the knowledge and himself passed into legend when as a man he went into Golgotha to find his true love.’

  ‘The entrance?’

  Anya nodded. ‘Vedic’s looking for the entrance because this is the only way to find the Morrigan and the prince.’

  Akyar tilted his head as if weighing up this statement. ‘Perhaps. He’s acting as if he were up to something.’

  Anya watched the woodsman move. He was quicker than Thrace and nimbler than Falkirk. The man did not move like a woodsman, he moved like a warrior – no wasted motion, no unnecessary noise and an almost-preternatural sense of where he was. He was at least five metres ahead, and she was certain he heard every word they were saying.

  ‘That war pulled the gods in,’ said Akyar, ‘didn’t it?’

  Anya nodded. ‘So legend goes. Danu had to intervene.’

  ‘It sounds a lot like the first war. That started with the humans as well – no offence.’

  Anya shrugged. ‘The past is a whisper. It distorts and warps with distance. Who can really tell who did what and when? It does not matter.’

  ‘And the Morrigan left the entrance open?’

  Vedic stopped again. He called back as he examined a bent section of branch. ‘She couldn’t close it – she did try. The way she burst the rock apart, the emotion she vented into the land, meant it would not close. Even Danu failed.’

  ‘It seems unlikely that such a big chasm like that would remain hidden,’ said Akyar.

  ‘You tell me,’ said Vedic. ‘The Wound starts on this slope, the wasteland proper over that hill, but then you already know that, Akyar.’

  Akyar stopped. Anya turned to him. The Tream looked worried now as he eyed Vedic’s hands. The woodsman did not move or make to draw his weapon; he was standing over what looked like faint tracks that had almost been worn away by the weather. They couldn’t have been more than a few days old.

  ‘Tream went into the Wound,’ said Vedic. ‘Before or after the kidnap?’

  Akyar did not look away from the woodsman’s gaze. ‘Before.’

  Vedic stared at the tracks he had found, biting his lower lip and then laughing. It was not a nice sound. Anya turned to look at the Tream in surprise and felt herself flush
with hurt. Entering the Raized was something the Morrigan had forbidden the Tream and the other gods to do. It was a provocation. They had lied.

  No, came the voice in her head. They omitted. They acted like warriors and not children. Learn from them.

  Vedic pointed up the shallow rise. ‘The Wound continues down into the next valley, and somewhere in there is the entrance you are looking for. We will see you after all this is over.’

  The woodsman turned to go. Akyar drew his sword.

  ‘Do not make me do this, Vedic.’

  The woodsman stopped. He turned round to look at the tip of Akyar’s sword. The Tream had pointed the weapon at the man’s nose.

  ‘Vedic,’ she said. ‘We gave our word.’

  Vedic shrugged. ‘Under duress. I led us here so Akyar could continue alone and we could go for Danu. If we free her first, she can save the boy easily using her power and leave us free to mop up the rest of the Kurah.’

  He continued, his hand half drawing his sword from his shoulder. ‘Now you are where you need to be, armed with what little we know about the Morrigan and as fair a chance as I can afford to give. Come on, Anya.’

  ‘No,’ said Anya. ‘I promised to help.’

  Vedic shook his head. ‘Very well. Stay. I’m going to free Danu.’ And the woodsman started to head away from them.

  Akyar bellowed and charged, picking up the woodsman’s legs and dumping him on the ground. Vedic rolled back to his feet and blocked the vizier’s sword.

  ‘You can’t win,’ said Vedic. He sounded weary. ‘Don’t do this. You will get hurt.’

  ‘You’re every bit the scum they all thought you were.’

  ‘I’m a little long in the tooth for insults, Akyar.’

  The Tream drove the woodsman up the rise and over the crest. Anya realised Akyar wasn’t trying to hurt him, not really, he was trying to force him deeper into the Raized. Anya ran after them, trying not to fixate on the sick feeling in her stomach over what they might find there. Anya stumbled to a halt at the top of the rise, looking across the Raized.

  The blistered landscape was a silent scream to an ancient war. There were no trees. They had left the wall of green behind them, and the next section of forest was too far in the distance to be anything more than a green band on the horizon. All around lay the broken epitaphs of a vast region of woodland. Blackened, crumbling, reaching upwards like decaying digits, the fallen boughs littered the ground.

  The woodsman and vizier duelled across the landscape, knocking ancient echoes of the forest to dust as they went. Vedic didn’t seem particularly stretched to Anya: he continued to block the Tream with ease as Akyar grew more and more frustrated. Vedic could easily have killed the creature. Anya could see that now in the way he moved, but the woodsman was showing uncharacteristic restraint.

  ‘Hey! Stop it!’ she called down as she set off towards them.

  Vedic struck the moment she spoke. He swept the Tream’s legs out from under him as Akyar tried to lunge towards him. The vizier landed hard on his back with a thud. Vedic held his blade to the Tream’s chest. The Tream waited for the killing blow, but the forestal did not strike.

  ‘You’re the one who wanted to kill me,’ said Vedic, raising an eyebrow, ‘not the other way round.’

  Akyar knocked the blade to one side, rolling as he did so and picking up his own weapon. He swung again.

  ‘Stop it!’ yelled Anya. The pair froze as she stepped between them with her own blade drawn. ‘Just stop it. What the hell is wrong with you both?’

  The pair stood silent.

  ‘Akyar, if he wants to go, let him. I’m still here and Meyr still needs rescuing,’ Anya said. ‘We should be looking for the tunnel into Golgotha, not trying to beat this husk of a man. As for you, Vedic …’ She turned to look him in the face. ‘You’re pathetic. I said “husk”, and I meant it. You might have been someone once, but now all you are is a wraith, a shadow of someone who the world long since forgot. You wouldn’t go into Golgotha for anyone, would you?’

  Vedic didn’t reply. He didn’t meet her gaze either.

  ‘I never thought I’d see fear from you,’ she continued. ‘You reek of it though. Why are you so determined to run away?’

  Vedic stepped back, his grip tightening on his sword.

  ‘Yeah, go on, run away. But don’t pretend you know the Shaanti legends better than I do – turn up to Danu having left a child to die or worse, and see what she does with you. Go in front of the mother goddess with Tream blood on your hands. She may let you live, not that you’ll enjoy it.’

  ‘Careful, little one,’ said Vedic, his sword lifting once more. ‘My patience has its limits.’

  ‘Or what? You’ll fight me?’ she said, laughing. ‘Run if you must. I’m going to look for this boy.’

  Anya stepped away from them in search of the tunnel. She could see them in the periphery of her vision. Had she reached them? Akyar looked winded from his numerous falls. He watched Vedic warily as the woodsman moved further away.

  ‘Will you help?’ asked Akyar.

  ‘No,’ said Vedic, shaking his head. ‘I’ll not go to Golgotha. Danu has asked for me – I’m oath-bound to respond.’

  Akyar looked up at the sky. ‘You are an oath-breaker. And old. And slow.’

  Akyar leapt. It was a sudden motion that a human being would not have been able to mimic. Vedic could not get his sword up to block, and it was all he could do to get under Akyar and turn the Tream’s blade away from his body.

  Anya dropped her sword, running to try to stop them, yelling at them as she did so – but it was too late. Vedic used Akyar’s momentum against him, and the Tream was thrown over, hitting the ground first, sliding through the dirt with the force of the impact. Anya saw a moment of sudden realisation on the woodsman’s face, but it was too late to stop himself falling through the fissure, after the Tream.

  They’d found the entrance.

  Anya felt her old ankle injury, which had seemingly been healed so well by the mud, now aching like she was a hundred years old. She could feel the heat dissipating from her as if an ice snake were winding round her legs.

  Anya did not have to speak their languages to understand from the tone that both were berating the other for getting them into this. She moved closer to the opening. The fissure was barely bigger than a man, camouflaged perfectly against the blood-dark mud. Anya looked down into the black, weighing the danger of following them before they had clearly got to the bottom versus the risk of being left behind.

  ‘Looks like Vedic has a role after all,’ said Anya to herself.

  In the distance, a crow cawed, and Anya was reminded of the task at hand. She took one last look at the sky, just in case, and hoped she was doing the right thing.

  Anya jumped.

  It was a long slide. She fell down a tube of rock and dirt made slick by an indeterminate fluid that Anya had no urge to classify. A faint smell, the sweet putrescence of the tunnel, pawed at her throat and nose, and made her eyes water as she tried to slow herself with her arms, bruising them. Below, she could hear the grunts and curses of the other two as they struck the tunnel edges in their descent. As she slid further, the speed increased.

  And without warning the journey became a free fall.

  The tunnel dropped away beneath her. Darkness was broken by a dull, sick-tinged orange light that blinded like a migraine, and she felt the sensation of having left one’s stomach ten metres above as she shot straight down, like an arrow, for what looked like a fatal landing. She cursed her own stupidity. Her last thought before the ground punched her was a prayer for her life not to end like this.

  The landing was so hard it felt like a blow, driving the wind from her as her feet drove into the ground. Except the impact wasn’t met by the fatal crush of hard soil. It was a slow pool of liquid mud, made painful by the speed of her fall but allowing her to live by virtue of her angle of descent. Her gratitude for the serendipity was lessened by the realisation that – embedde
d up to her chest already – the slow pool was going to swallow her.

  Anya shouted, loud, long and with anger. To come so far and to be stopped, to be killed in this manner – swallowed by mud – it infuriated her.

  The slow pool pulled her under. Instinct made her hold her breath, and intellect told her hanging on was foolish, but she couldn’t bring herself to end her life by opening her mouth. She hung suspended in the muck for an eternity. Anya’s chest seemed to grow, her lungs pressed up against her ribs, and bright points of light burst under her eyelids, showering the shutters of her eyes with streaks of colour as the pressure to open her mouth grew. An insidious voice inside her head begged her to take a breath: it wouldn’t take a moment. This voice wasn’t her mother’s. It didn’t sound like anyone she knew or had known. Maybe it was her air-starved brain, but she thought it sounded how she imagined the Morrigan might. Her head exploded with fire.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The ground tilts. Smoke fills the air and grips the throat.

  It isn’t the thick belching of burning wood but the insidious, cloying sweetness of incense smouldering in effusive abandonment throughout the dim stone chamber. Tendrils of smoke stretch into the high ceiling, and the audience seated in front of me on row upon row of benches are obviously uncomfortable. I can see the restlessness etched on their faces, in the shuffling of hands over mouths and the way they shift in their seats in an undulating wave of uneasiness. I wonder why they are prepared to stay. I dislike the hungry look on their faces.

  I am gripping a long stone knife with a force that is not under my control. As I look behind me, following the audience’s gaze, someone – a young man, an Shaanti – is pushed through the ragged curtain at the back of the dais. The man is maybe twenty, confused and frightened, and he stumbles forward in front of me with a moan. I speak, loud and clear. The crowd agrees with me. The prisoner smells acrid. He is terrified.