Chapter 11
The shirt pulled the loose fresh away from the wound in Shaol’s shoulder. He tried not to reopen the cut but the leather and skin were bonded tight and the wound started to weep. He grabbed at the small piece of white cloth, which Pysuun had cut off from the rest, and held it firm against the wound.
Shaol was exhausted, his head pounded, his nose throbbed, his chest ached. The adrenaline from the night was gone and all that was left was a body that had been pushed too far.
Pysuun crouched in front of Shaol and inspected his face.
“Hold still,” said Pysuun taking Shaol’s misshapen nose between in fingers.
There was a swift movement, a crack and then a pain that caused Shaol to tumble from the stool and onto the dirt floor. He swallowed the scream, the brick walls of meat store were thin and anyone passing outside would hear him.
Pysuun helped Shaol back onto the stool and brought over a bucket of milk and another piece of fabric. Shaol wet the cloth and started to wash the dried blood from his face, it felt swollen and wrong.
“You look like death,” said Pysuun as he pulled the grey cloth from the leather bags.
“I feel like death,” replied Shaol.
Shaol’s nose sung every time the rag came close, but the short, sharp pain was a pleasant distraction from the deep ache at the bottom of his chest.
Pysuun smoothed the grey curtain across the floor.
“Do we have enough?” asked Shaol.
“Enough for two or three, I think,” said Pysuun his voice slightly nervous.
Yor had managed to get them the supplies they needed from a nearby storehouse. A sharp pair of scissors, normally used for slicing through leather, a piece of white chalk to mark a pattern and some thick leather twine to bring the pieces together.
“I’ve never done this before,” said Pysuun looking at the pieces of cloth, “I can mend shirts and trousers, but this…”
Shaol sat quietly and continued to wipe his face, he knew nothing about making clothes. He looked down the rows of curing meat that hung from the large, jagged hooks. He had collide with one of heavy carcasses that morning when he first entered the store and the weight had tumbled down on top of him. Shaol had been able to awkwardly grab the lump and kept it from crashing into the others long enough for Pysuun to hold the other side steady and hook it back onto the railing above.
Pysuun cut the air with the large blades of the scissors.
“I think,” he started, “I cut out a rectangle and we wrap it around our bodies, then a triangle goes over the head to a point.”
Pysuun looked at Shaol who returned a blank stare.
“We need sleeves,” said Pysuun.
“Yes,” agreed Shaol as he remembered the sleeves of the cloak that had come close to the green fire when the Grey Men had made the water safe.
“How do we connect them?”
Shaol shrugged.
“I can’t do this,” said Pysuun, “we’ll just ruin the fabric.”
“The fabric’s no good to us if you can’t make the cloaks.”
Shaol rinsed the cloth in the milk which was slowly turning pink.
“We can take the fabric into the fortress, we can fashion it when we have more time,” said Pysuun.
“If you can’t make them now, you won’t be able to make later,” said Shaol quietly.
Pysuun nodded to himself and looked at the cloth for a moment then, without another word, he knelt on to the ground and cut into the fabric. Shaol started to clean the gash in the back of his leg.
Shaol remembered the vision he had seen after the creature had struck him. The temple furthest from him had the light, it had to be the scared light Friend had spoken of that was where he must go.
Friend knew the temple was there, she had called it by its name. She had known Tarlnath when there were leather tents instead of stone and grass had grown where, now, there was nothing but dirt. Could a Demon live so long? Shaol knew nothing of Demons except for the strange curses the Masters would use when the sled broke without explanation or the times an Under would turn sour and attack the others without fear of what would happen to him. It was a Demon that had taken him was what the Masters would say, but Shaol knew what had real taken the Old Ones.
Until yesterday, Shaol had never thought that Demon’s could be real creatures but both Raphtune and Pysuun had talked as though they were indeed something that walked the lands beyond the city. Had he brought one into the city? Friend had denied it, said it was magic that the Grey Men sought, but Shaol still did not know who or what Friend was.
It did not matter, thought Shaol as he pushed away the sudden doubt in his friend, Pysuun would be a father again, the seven would be free and then, when it was done, Shaol would go home to the lake that he missed. Whatever Friend was, she must have been very powerful to live all these years and that meant was she could do as she promised.
Shaol wondered, how long ago it had been since Friend had walked the green plains of Tarlnath. There were no memories in Tarlnath, the Masters never kept books about the past or spoke of things that had gone before. The Masters never spoke about anything except what was immediately in front of them.
Shaol felt his body slump in the stool. He wanted to sleep for a hundred years, but he only had a few days before the Grey Men would come for him, the Masters hunted him in the streets of the city, he would sleep when it was done.
Shaol picked up the pot of white paste that Yor had brought him, a sticky material that could seal the cut in his leg. He took a small amount on his finger tip and smeared it into the first cut on his leg and hissed as the paste burnt its way into the flesh.
Tarlnath was a dead land which had once lived. Why had the Masters stayed? Was it true what Raphtune had said? Were the Masters so low that it was the only land they could hold? He had never thought of the Masters as anymore than the ones who must be obeyed. Shaol knew there were other lands, but he had never thought of these lands as anything but the homes the kids remembered until the memories became fuzzy and lost, never as the homes of others that kept the Masters caged, caged to do nothing but serve the Grey Men.
There had been so much he had learnt since he was taken from the caravan and given to Aksit. Shaol looked at the tattoo on his arm and he thought of the ruin he had brought to the Master and then the regret came, cutting deep and painfully.
Shaol wished it had not come to that, he wished he had found Pysuun safely in the cellar, he wished Aksit had not tried to fight him, he wished he was able to walk under the black wall and take what he needed, but that was not the way of the city.
Shaol smeared the paste into the second gash.
The city had done this to them. It had forced them together, it had held them within its walls and it had made them all desperate. Could Friend take everyone from this place, leave the damned fortress and its Grey Men to watch over their dead plains? There would be no need for Unders or Masters if the poison lands of Gart were left to rot.
Shaol felt the anger build in him as he thought on it and then he gritted his teeth, pushed the thoughts away and looked down at the cuts in his leg. The final cut was less severe than the others. Once it was done, Shaol looked up at Pysuun who was now standing over the fabric shaking his head.
Shaol did not want to interrupt, he could not help nor did he want too. Either, Pysuun would be able to make cloaks or he would take them.
Shaol turned his attention to the cuts in his shoulder. He was tired of his thoughts and the endless questions. He did not want to think on them anymore, he longed for the life where he took water from the lake and placed it in the tanks. Friend would dance beneath the water, with her bright yellow eyes and tell him ridiculous stories about fish and animals that lived at the bottom of the lake and he would tell her about the trees on the way to the lake, the young ones who had been brought to caravan, the Old Ones he had fought back the night before. The days would pass them and Shaol would let them go without concern.
&
nbsp; Pysuun wrapped himself in a rectangle of fabric, he did not look like a Grey Man.
“Two holes here and here for the arms,” said Pysuun looking at Shaol.
Shaol did not say anything.
“This is ridiculous,” said Pysuun throwing the cloth to the floor, “I’m not a tailor.”
“No,” said Shaol nod.
“Maybe… if the guards are blind,” laughed Pysuun.
“We will take the cloaks, then,” said Shaol simply.
“From where?”
“The Grey Men. Once we are in the fortress we will take them.”
Pysuun suddenly looked concerned.
“Let me try again,” he said grabbing the rectangle off the ground and started wrapping it around his body,
Shaol looked down at the milk and blood which swam in the bucket between his feet. He saw the Grey Men dead beneath him, he needed their cloaks to the save the seven.
Shaol smeared the paste on the last cut of shoulder.
Pysuun, Horsuun, Jarga, Yor, Hassa, Cutter, Rag, these Shaol knew but he would take more. There was many more trapped here and he was not going to leave them. Aksit, Revra, Torta, Faun, his Old Master, he would take them all away from this city.
Shaol put down the paste and found the chain in his pocket. He slid the small links between his fingers.
How many could Friend save? She never gave a number, any that helped was all she said. He took the chain out of his pocket and studied the stone, it was dark brown with orange flecks. He looked at the surface which perfectly reflected the meat store and his swollen face, he had never noticed how smooth the surface of the stone was.
Shaol felt himself slip away from his body. He was beside the lake and the sun sat bright in the sky. The blue water sparkled in the early morning sun, far in the distant, the shadows of several dozen Unders gathered the water from the lake.
The grit of the floor was pressed against Shaol’s cheek, he was sprawled out beside the stool, he slowly realised he had fallen asleep. He grabbed the chain that had fallen from his hand and slid it back into his pocket.
“I need to rest,” said Shaol as he picked himself up from the floor.
Pysuun now had a cut of the fabric hung over his head.
“You sleep, I’ll keep at this.”
Shaol laid himself on the floor, closed his eyes and darkness came over him, for a time there was no pain in his body.
A cut of meat hung above Shaol’s head. He sat up, his ribs still hurt as he moved, but he felt rested. Pysuun had something over his head. Fabric went, strangely, down his body and hid his legs, there were no sleeves, there were no shoulders, he did not look like a Grey Man.
“It was the best I could do,” sighed Pysuun.
“And there is only one,” replied Shaol.
“I could make another.”
“I don’t think we need another.”
“No,” said Pysuun annoyed.
“It was good to try,” said Shaol, “but we have lost nothing. The Grey Men will give us their cloaks.”
The door to the meat shed flew open, Yor was in the doorway.
“You must go,” he hissed, “the Masters are closing down the quarter, they are searching every building.”
Shaol pulled himself from the ground.
“Leave everything,” ordered Shaol and turned to Yor, “destroy it all.”
“Where can we go?” asked Pysuun.
“We can’t stay here,” replied Shaol, “Yor, we’ll return tomorrow for the run.”
“They’ll hunt you til they find you,” said Yor shaking his head.
“You won’t help then?” challenged Pysuun.
“There’s nothing to help with,” snapped Yor, “it’s a fool’s idea, no one leaves this city. I don’t know how I let you talk me into this.”
“Rot in your damn shed,” growled Pysuun.
“Yor, do you want leave?” said Shaol stepping forward.
“Of course, I do,” hissed Yor, “but there’s no way out.”
“I’ll take you home, Yor,” said Shaol looking into his eyes, “but I need your wagon.”
Yor sighed and studied Shaol.
“Not tomorrow,” Yor said quickly.
“Tomorrow, if it’s safe,” said Shaol calmly.
“We’re all dead, if you’re caught here, including the children.”
“Tomorrow, if it is safe.”
“You need to be here before dawn,” growled Yor, “but don’t risk our lives.”
“I won’t.”
Yor led Shaol and Pysuun to the back door that led into the dirt streets of the outer city. The road was wide and bright, people milled around giving the two cover to escape down the street.
“Everyone in doors,” shouted a voice from around the corner of a building, “the streets are to be empty.”
Shaol and Pysuun slipped into a dirt alley between two buildings as the others around them started to empty the streets without objection. The pair made their way down an alley to the far end, Shaol looked out and saw a group of guards approaching up the street they needed to cross. They fell back and went back the way they came. As Shaol stuck his head out of the alley, another group of guards started to round the corner of the meat store and wander towards them, the pair was surrounded.
Pysuun and Shaol looked at each other. There was a window to a workshop they could climb through but there was not enough time.
“Say you have a message for Battlemaster Galdra,” came the voice of Friend and then she was gone.
Pysuun looked at Shaol.
“We’re done, aren’t we?” said Pysuun simply.
“Stay here,” said Shaol and handed Pysuun the chain, “I’ll distract the guards, you…”
“I’ll see this through to the end,” said Pysuun angrily and pushed the chain away.
“Your son,” snapped Shaol.
“We free him together.”
Shaol was quiet for a moment and then nodded, looked at his friend and a smile came to his face. The pair walked out of the alley and the guards looked upon the two.
“Hold,” shouted one.
“I think… it’s them,” stammered another.
“We have a message for Battlemaster Galdra,” called Shaol
“From who?” asked the guard as he approached, sword drawn.
“The Demon.”