Looking South - Part VII

long the line of the desert, the Steppe became rather hilly. Low dells stood up in contrast to the flat expanse that continued endlessly to the North. They held back the tracts of sand that stretched down towards the sea, and provided some cover from the scorching of the sun. The knights of Driheli hugged these dells as they travelled westward. Many of the knights had been mystified by the Knight Templar’s decision, but none would question it. They knew not to question the Knight Templar.

Sir Czestadt rose uneasily in his saddle. There was a nagging thought that lurked at the back of his mind. In his long years of training first as a Kankoran and then as a knight, he had learned not to ignore those niggling feelings he sometimes experienced. But he could not discern what was bothering him, so he let it percolate at the back of his head.

It had taken less than an hour to dismantle the tents and stow everything upon the pack horses and few wagons that they brought with them. If they needed to move faster, the wagons could be left behind for a time, but he doubted that would prove necessary. Their wagons were quicker and sturdier than the one’s the Magyars favoured. In a race the Driheli would win.

As the Knight Templar wished to cover as much ground as possible, they had left as soon as everything was ready. The priests were forced to say their prayers on horseback, and many of the knights did not bother to shave that morning. A day or two of stubble would not harm their faces, at least for those that like Sir Czestadt chose not to grow a beard.

The hours of riding had grown long, but the sun still stood high in the sky. The celestial orb had begun its descent towards the western horizon, but they had many hours yet to go before dusk would settle and bring the chill of a desert evening with it. As the sky would begin to darken, Sir Czestadt would send several men back to the Great Eastern Mountains to join Sir Petriz as they lay in wait for the Magyars to emerge. He would send the rest of Sir Petriz’s own knights first naturally. It was unwise to split men from their leaders. They bonded in battle and what blood united no man should separate.

Grimacing, Sir Czestadt pondered what his former squire might be doing just then. They had been under orders to remain hidden in the small alcove a short distance from the opening into the mountains. It would not give them much of a view of the larger path which was several leagues to the north, but once the Magyars had begun to move away from the mountains, they’d be in an ideal position to flank them. At least, once they had enough men.

“Damn,” he muttered, feeling that itch at the back of his mind blossom into a heavy throb. “Knights of Vasks, come with me. Sir Guthven, lead the rest on as planned.” He looked to his squire who rode at his side. “Come Hevsky.” The boy swallowed, sensing his master’s disquiet.

Those called all turned their steeds with him and began the long ride back to the mountains.

The journal had once contained words. It still did, but the new pages that Father Felsah filled did not lend themselves to script. He tried to write, but nothing would come to him. Instead, he found his pen tracing out lines and figures, figures that invariably resolved themselves into images of a certain mechanical fox that he had met what seemed a lifetime ago. Felsah smiled only when he looked at those pictures.

After meeting with Grand Questioner Mizrahek they had attended the daily liturgy, and then retired to their cells for study and contemplation. Each Questioner lived in a small cell four paces across and eight paces deep. As wood was a precious commodity in Yesulam, their doorway’s were sealed only with a light cloth that draped from the transom. The walls were heavy clay and stone, and lit by a few candles burning in sconces secured to the wall. The stone was discoloured black from soot above the flames. A small pallet occupied most of the room, next to it was a small clay stool he used for praying. Apart from a small cloth covered recession in the wall in which his folded clothes were kept, the only other feature of the room was the chamberpot in the other corner.

Felsah kept his journals beneath the pallet, while the quill pen and ink were stored under the stool when not in use. In the fifteen years since he had become a Questioner, the journals had remained the only personal thing he owned apart from a copy of the Canticles. He had filled three completely in that time, and occasionally he would review them to recall some insight that he’d once had. His fourth had begun conventionally about a year ago, but the last twenty pages were filled with nothing but drawings and the date he had made them.

Setting the quill aside, he looked at his latest entry. It was clear his attempts at translating images to paper were improving. A person who knew Madog might be able to recognize the automaton in the crouched canine figure. To make him appear metallic, he had attempted to hint at the shine upon his artificial hide, though he was not certain how convincing his efforts had been. But none would recognize the man that knelt next to him, one hand reaching out to pet the fox. Felsah sighed at the memory and closed the journal.

And not a moment too soon either, for the soft tread of footsteps neared the closed curtain. It was a Questioner, the softness in the gait was one they were trained in. When the figure stopped before his cell, Felsah slipped the journal underneath his pallet, rose, and drew aside the cloth with one hand. The cowl of his black cloak was about his shoulders, revealing his dark hair mixed with grey and placid features.

The Questioner who stood outside had his cowl drawn up, but in the flickering candlelight, he recognized the chiselled face of Father Kehthaek. “Come in, Father,” he invited without any accompanying gesture. Kehthaek entered, and once Felsah let the curtain fall back into place, the older Questioner drew back his cowl as well.

“How are you, Father Felsah?” Kehthaek asked, his eyes not even sparing a moment to glance at the meagre cell. No doubt his own was much the same.

“Well. Would you care to recline upon my pallet?”

“Yes, thank you, Father,” Kehthaek lowered himself with grace surprising for one his age. He leaned back against the wall, legs laying off to the side. Felsah sat cross-legged on the stone across from him. “You have always been quiet, Father Felsah. But more so since we have left Metamor. For weeks you said nothing at all. What troubles you?”

Felsah found the question surprising. In truth, he spoke very little because there was nothing he felt inclined to say. His words, when used, were meant to serve Eli after all. Even in his youth he had more often listened to others than spoke himself. But it was true, he had not been using his voice much lately.

“I do not quite know, Father Kehthaek,” he replied honestly. There was an otherworldly quality to Kehthaek that he could not place. Something about the man, his calm regard for everything that happened, his artificial and practised displays of emotion, something that just made his own flesh stir. Anything less than honesty would have been wrong. Felsah had heard others murmur that Kehthaek was a model for all Questioners to aspire to. He could not help but wonder if Kehthaek was human any longer, and if so, why any would wish to aspire to that.

“What have you been feeling?”

Felsah lowered his eyes then and gripped his robe tighter in his hands. “Loss, perhaps. I did not tell you of one thing that happened at Metamor.”

“Many were the things that happened there,” Kehthaek replied safely, though there was a hint of invitation in his voice. Few would have recognized it, but it was there. Perhaps, that hint was something meant only for Questioners to know.

“Do you remember the mechanical fox?” Though a part of him wished to keep Madog a secret, he knew that he could not endlessly draw pictures.

“The one that suddenly appeared in our quarters at Metamor?”

“Yes, that is the one.”

Felsah fell silent then, breathing slowly and letting the memories suffuse him. He had rolled the brass bauble for the fox, and Madog had bounded after it like any playful dog. And Madog had sown him the other side of the stained glass windows in the Cathedral. And Madog had asked him a question that none had ever done before in his entire life. Thoughts that he had dispelled came burbling up into his mind now whether he wished them or not. Old pains filled him, approbations he had long forgotten were his constant accompaniment. But there was a hint there of something else too, some elusive nature that Madog possessed and had shown him a glimpse of. A promise perhaps.

“What of the automaton?”Kehthaek pressed after an interval. His face was stoic, eyes open, but unrevealing.

Finding his own mask of solemnity, Felsah replied, “He came to me each night. I had trouble sleeping. We talked some, and he showed me a few things. Things I would never have seen otherwise.”

“What things?”

Kehthaek was not quite in his usual Questioner demeanour, at least not like what Felsah had witnessed at Metamor. In fact, though he had heard Kehthaek’s name mentioned for years before, he had never had occasion to join him in a Questioning until Metamor. And truth be told, he’d never seen a finer mind, a clearer wit, and a more focussed Questioner than Kehthaek. Something in him frightened him and inspired him at the same time. Yet there was also a hint of despair there as well. No matter how long he studied, how much he laboured, Felsah knew he could never swim in the same currents that Kehthaek trod upon.

“My father was a farmer along the Yurdon. We had a dog that I used to play with. Josa was his name. A sweet animal, he loved to chase sticks. I would throw the stick as hard as I could, and Josa would chase after it, bring it back in his mouth, and then drop it at my feet for me to throw again. Madog reminded me of that time long ago. Of how things were much simpler then, and of all the things I once wanted. I feel their loss again now.”

The pallet shifted under Kehthaek’s weight as the older Questioner considered the words. For a moment, and it came and went so quickly that Felsah was not sure that he truly saw it, Kehthaek appeared uncomfortable. “Is that who you draw? The automaton?”

Felsah stiffened, but then relaxed once more, the training of a Questioner a hard thing to forget. Nothing else mattered, only the service to Eli. He was sworn to it, his vows were blessed with water, and he would not abandon it. “Yes. I did not know that you had seen my journal.”

“You thought me asleep once,” Kehthaek replied, not without the trace of a smile at the edge of his lips. What had that been in his voice, that slight uplifting tone? Had it been fondness? With Kehthaek, it was impossible to tell. “You are a fine priest, Father Felsah. I was glad of your company on our journey. Your only weakness is this: you lack faith in your own convictions. The word of Eli does not only come through the mouths of your superiors, though them you should obey. Eli speaks to all of us.”

Felsah narrowed his eyes, feeling quite surprised. He had often been upbraided by other Questioners for this or that failing. But Kehthaek had never offered a criticism. Not of him, nor of Father Akaleth, whose tendency to resort to more violent means of persuasion quite often clearly upset the older Questioner.

“What of you, Father Kehthaek? What is on your mind?”

The turning of the questions did not appear to bother him. He remained placid and unconcerned in his regard. “The state of affairs in Yesulam. You speak of loss, thinking on your childhood. I speak of loss, and I speak of a home that has changed in fundamental ways. What those changes are, is yet to be seen. Tonight, we will have another glimpse.”

“Does the selection of Father Mizrahek as Grand Questioner upset you?”

“Of course.” Kehthaek shifted and pushed himself to his feet. “Thank you for your hospitality, Father Felsah.” He stepped to the cloth and smiled. “Perhaps you should consider being an artist in your spare time. Priests, even we Questioners, are allowed hobbies that glorify Eli.” Kehthaek then pushed aside the curtain and was gone.

Felsah continued to sit, looking at the empty space that had only moments before held an inscrutable old man. Slowly, silently, he reached an arm forward and pulled the journal from its hiding place underneath the pallet. The book’s binding was frayed slightly, but he knew how to repair that. Turning open the pages, he looked at his latest drawing once more. Madog sat there allowing the Questioner, the one who wasn’t wanted at Metamor to pet him. Of all at Metamor, only this one had looked at him with any kindness.

He felt it before he saw it, that slow trickle of dampness sliding across his cheek. He lifted his hand and brushed back the tears. Even here in Yesulam, as a Questioner, he was merely an instrument of Eli’s will. How sad it was that he was the least regarded part of the body of the Ecclesia. Why could not his profession be as loved and admired as the rest of it was? Why is that the only one who could see him for something more than a black cloak be a creature who might possibly be just a magical construct?

Felsah closed the book, and let out a long exhalation. His talents were in discerning the truth of matters. He was skilled at being a Questioner. Had he done anything else with his life, he would have been spurning the gifts that Eli had given him. If you be cursed and hated for my sake. Felsah took comfort from that passage of the Canticles.

“I try, Yahshua. I try.”

That was enough. Feeling a sense of warmth suffuse him, Felsah crawled over to the stool to say his afternoon prayers.

Though he was glad to have returned home, Father Akaleth was still restless. The long stillness of the journey had infused him with a nervous energy that he had to sate. The Hall of Questioners never suited him in those times, as it only served to stifle any attempts to make use of that energy. It was meant to be a place of contemplation where a Questioner could better attune himself to his duty and to his devotion to Eli. He begrudged none who used it for such, but his own needs could not be met there. At least, not just then.

He had taken a few minutes to compose his thoughts in his cell after their meeting with Grand Questioner Mizrahek. Mizrahek seemed like a rather sensible fellow he thought. Being forced to agree to limitations by the Lothanasa of Metamor had been galling. It was bad enough that they had been constrained, but by a pagan no less! He had no desire for the upbraiding that they would have justly received for letting themselves be schooled by one such as her, and so had not mentioned that aspect of things. He had enjoyed seeing Father Kehthaek received just recriminations, but there was only so far he wished to go.

His whip was as always curled around his wrist. It was comforting to hold it. He could still feel the scars on his back from where his own father had used the whip on him. None saw them now, as he always wore the black cloak of the Questioners. But still, he kept the whip with him. Pagans and liars deserved no better than it after all. Of course, if they relented and confessed their evil ways, he would forgive them and gladly welcome them home to the Ecclesia. Few ever did. In fact, as he thought back on it, none had ever done so. What a sad state for the world he decided.

Akaleth liked to walk between the streets of Yesulam, at least those streets that were near to the Great Cathedral. Seeing the opulence of the Ecclesia’s heart always filled him with a fierce pride. So much greater and more radiant than his father’s own Rebuilder nonsense. There was nothing more important than Eli’s kingdom on Earth after all. And here it was in its most glorious form. Basking in the luster was perhaps the most satisfying thing that he could think to do.

Especially now that he had finally returned from the journey to Metamor. There had been an opulence and greatness to that northerly city. But it was tainted, so thoroughly, that the glimmering spires had become foul ugly things, like the horns of some demon buried deep under the soil. The presence of magic was inescapable, and he cringed at the memory of it. And the pagans. The pagans! He had never seen so many in his life. The mere thought that whole multitudes could reject the authority of Yesulam and Eli was abhorrent.

But he was in Yesulam once more. The heat in the very air was testament to that. Smiling, Akaleth continued walking those paved streets, feeling the dark cloak about him keeping that warmth close. His fingers rubbed the leather whip and his smile widened.

“Pardon me,” a rather high-pitched voice called from behind him.

Turning, Akaleth saw a rather portly Bishop dressed in the more common regalia of alb, ornamental dalmatic, and stole. He had a cherubic face, with doughy cheeks and small bright eyes. Wisps of hair dotted the side of his shaven tonsure. “You are Father Akaleth, yes?” the Bishop asked, a quirk to his smile. “You just returned from Metamor, if I a not mistaken.”

“Yes,” Akaleth said, smiling then. He felt a measure of pride that the Bishop would recognize him. He searched his memory for the man’s name, and found it quickly enough. “What honour am I to receive that you would greet me so, Bishop Jothay?”

Jothay laughed brightly. There was a childlike innocence to it, one that was strangely off-putting. “No honour, my son, just my respect and curiosity. You are to report your findings tonight at the Council?”

“Yes, your grace,” Akaleth nodded. “You are eager to hear them?”

“Oh quit! Is there anything that you can tell me now?”

“No, your grace. I cannot speak of it until I stand before the Council tonight.” He said this last with verve. It was to be his first time to stand before the Council after all. He was going to do this right. If Grand Questioner Mizrahek was as he seemed a few hours ago, his performance tonight could propel him higher in the ranks of the Questioners.

Bishop Jothay frowned for a moment, but the smile could not stray from his lips for very long. “Well, at the very least, tell me of Metamor. I have never been there but I have heard many things of it.”

“It is a foul place,” Athalek said, grimacing. He could feel the anger and bile building in him once more. Just thinking of the disagreeable and uncooperative people that they had questioned irked him. He had so wanted to teach them some respect, but his whip was held back by Kehthaek. He wasn’t that fond of Kehthaek either. The man had far too high an opinion of himself. The older Questioner may be terribly effective, but his condescension was insufferable.

“Foul? I had heard it was demon-cursed, but that there were still wonders,” Jothay looked surprised, but amused as well.

“Wonders if you like magic and pagans,” Akaleth snorted. “They have no respect for Yesulam there.”

“Ah, but that will come in time. Eli’s will shall be made manifest in all the world, my son. You will see. I trust you seek to help it along?” Jothay’s gaze became curious, almost testing. He felt strangely offended that the Bishop even needed to ask him this.

“Of course, your grace! I want nothing but that!”

Bishop Jothay nodded, and his belly seemed to bounce. “Of course you do! Well, thank you for the stimulating conversation Father Akaleth. I fear I have matters to attend to. I look forward to hearing your findings this evening. May Eli’s peace be upon you.” And with that, the corpulent Jothay turned and almost skipped along the broad avenue towards the Council of Bishops.

Feeling somewhat unsettled by the conversation, but still filled with a nervous energy, Father Akaleth continued his survey of the great city of Yesulam, Eli’s gift to the world.

The smaller of the two paths westward wove a long twisting path down between the jagged peaks of the Vysehrad. Occasional markers were set in small alcoves of rock, gems of high quality that seemed chiselled from the stone instead of placed there, though none were as opulent as the glimmering lights that had lined the road to Hanlo o Bavol-engro. It would have been impossible to take the wagons down this trail, Nemgas reflected. At several points, the rocks pressed so close together that the horses laden with the heavy cloths and supplies could barely squeeze through without brushing either face.

There were moments when the tight passage opened up to allow them a wide view of the sky or a glance at the Steppe to the west, but they were always brief and not very revealing. While the Magyars had at first spent much of the passage in warm conversation, a deep sullenness began to take hold in each of them, until the air was filled with a silence as stony as the rocks that towered over them on either side. They all missed the comfort and familiarity of their wagons.

The horses that they captured from the Driheli were nervous, but seemed more agreeable now that they were no longer hitched to the back of the wagons. Their sense of unease stemmed from being surrounded by so much rock, without any water or grass to sate their hunger. The Magyars were naturally disdainful of horses, but at the same time, they each had a bit of pride for them. After all, they had stolen the horses from knights!

Nemgas did like to keep watch on those who he chose to come with him. Gelel was the one he worried most about. The boy had just seen his best friend killed only yesterday. He was reserved, and it as clear he mourned him still. Nemgas felt the bite of that sorrow deeply, as he had been responsible for them both. That it was Hanaman’s son who had died only made matters worse. Gelel had wanted to redeem his mistake and avenge Hanalko’s death. Nemgas would not stop him, though he did want to make sure that Gelel did not let his anger get the better of him.

Nor did Nemgas wish to see Gelel make his injury worse with too much exertion. The wound still pained the youth, though he hid it very well. The sword thrust had thankfully not been as deep as they had feared. The poultice had done its job in keeping the wound clean, and according to the youth it was nearly closed. Another day or two and he might even be able to remove the bandages for good. Nemgas hoped he was correct. He had a very ugly feeling that very soon they might have to face the Driheli in battle once more.

Even so, the journey down the mountainside was a slow but uninteresting one. They were all used to riding wagons more than walking, and he could see this was taking its toll on them one by one. Where their pace had once been brisk and sure, it now was haggard and shuffling. Even Chamag seemed stunted by the agony of putting one foot before the other, but the large man soldiered on without complaint.

Nemgas did not find the walking difficult, though his legs were sore. He knew that if they stopped though, they would not be able to continue. It was likely only another hour before they reached the base of the mountains. He wanted to be as close to the desert as possible before they stopped for the night. The Driheli had made their camp a good distance from the desert itself. They would probably be safe from the knights there, at least to begin with. He knew form Kashin’s memory that the Desert of Dreaming was a dangerous place, filled with mirages, quicksand, and other perils. He would not risk it if he could help it.

But even a Nemgas was pondering what might be done about the Driheli, they came to a break in the rock that gave them an expansive view of the Steppe. Chamag had drawn the company to a halt at the very edge, allowing all of them to get a look. He turned to the side and stared in stupefied surprise for several moments while the rest of them caught up. Looking back at Nemgas, he shook his head. “They hath gone! They wert there yesterday.”

“What?” Nemgas called across the line of Magyars and horses.

“The Driheli!” Chamag said, his voice loud, though it did not carry beyond the path. He pointed his arm out to a section of the Steppe that looked as unremarkable as any other. “They were there yesterday.”

Nemgas stared at the long fields. There were still a good distance up, but he wagered that they could see for just over twenty miles out onto the Steppe. The path came to a small promontory that dropped off before a few lower peaks. A short distance down it wound back between the rock. But out on the Steppe there was nothing but grass and a few hills further to the south. He could make out the burned rust of the desert sand beyond the hills. Squinting is eyes, he thought he saw something darker further off along that line of hills, but he couldn’t quite be sure.

“Why didst they leave?” Gelel asked, his face a mix of disappointment and relief.

“I dost not know,” Nemgas replied uncomfortably. This was unexpected, and it made him nervous. Had the Driheli given up? Had they received new orders? Or were they playing at some other type of game. Regardless, they still had to continue on.

“Shouldst we continue?” Pelgan asked, fingering one of his knives at his side. Amile was curling his braid between her fingers, her own face perplexed.

“Aye,” Nemgas said. “We hath no choice. The day hath many hours left, and we shouldst not waste them.”

Chamag and the rest nodded slowly, almost reluctantly he thought, but they continued on down the mountain path. Nemgas reached out to steady himself against the wall, pausing a moment to glance once more at the Steppe. The dark smudge at the edge of the hills was moving, or so it seemed to him. If that was the Driheli, they would definitely have to be careful. He sighed and guided his horse after the others, trying not to think of what the Steppe might bring.

And Nemgas managed to successfully keep him mind on other things for the better part of an hour. Shortly after leaving the promontory, the path delved deep between two higher peaks, winding through a crack that had been sundered in them. They lost track of the sun, and the path, littered with small loose stones became quite dangerous. They could barely see what was beneath their boots, and the horses were quite agitated. After five minutes, they lit a few torches, but even so, it still took them another twenty minutes to safely navigate the pass.

Even after the peaks fell away on either side, the rock walls were still tall enough to block the sun. They doused all but one torch, though they didn’t truly need even that one. The path levelled for a short time, and they began to notice that the terrain to their left was increasingly varied. The peaks were no longer so tall and jagged. The mountains on their left were stunted, as if they had been Vysehrad’s discarded afterthoughts once the giants had risen up from the Earth.

When the old road turned back towards the west and they could see the sun once more, the uneasiness began to set in. Nemgas felt as if there was a needle poking into his mind, something sharp and jagged that no matter where he turned his thoughts, it made itself known. Scanning the horizons, what he could see of them, he saw nothing amiss. But he knew that there was something out there, something that meant them harm.

It made him doubly uncomfortable because he recognized the feeling. It was not something that had happened to Nemgas in the days of his childhood. But it had happened to Kashin.

“Stop!” he called out pulling the horse to a halt. “Stop.”

Chamag was the last to stop, and he had to force the horse to back up a few paces so that he could get within easy earshot of Nemgas. “Why stop here? ‘Tis nothing here.”

“Aye,” Nemgas admitted, rubbing at either side of his temples. “But ‘tis something wrong. We canst continue as we are. I hath a premonition.”

“The Driheli?” Kaspel asked, eyes wide.

“Possibly. Chamag, how much farther doth this path take ere we reach the Steppe?”

Chamag shrugged. “A half hour perhaps.”

Nemgas nodded to himself and scanned the last remnants of the Vysehrad. It had been his home and refuge for nearly two months now. Soon they would be leaving it at long last. It felt strange, but he knew he would miss it. It was a harsh land, forbidding and unwelcoming to strangers, but it had sheltered the Magyars well enough.

“Pelgan, Gamran, dost ye think that ye canst find a way to climb down yonder slopes?” He pointed out to the left where the crags were shallower. In fact, despite the unevenness of the terrain, they could have walked a good fifty yards from the path to the left without any difficulty.

Both Magyars considered it speculatively for several seconds, but neither of them answered him. It was Amile who spoke up. “Aye, we canst climb that! ‘Tis easy!” There was fierce pride in her voice. It was so clear, Nemgas could not help but smile.

“Then ye three shalt climb down tat way, and circle around until thee dost reach the path. Chamag Berkon and I shalt continue on down. Kaspel and Gelel shalt follow behind us, but wait ten minutes back until we art certain that all is clear.” Nemgas stared them all in the eyes then, and he could see that though they loathed separating, they understood the wisdom in doing so. “Let us not delay. The horses shalt stay with us.”

“Naturally,” Gamran said, stepping off to one side, stretching out his arms. “This walk hath been too easy anyway.”

“Thou sayest that now. Thou shalt feel differently tomorrow,” Chamag warned, though he too bore a slight grin.

“We shalt wait here for half an hour, as I fear that it wilt take thee longer to descend the mountain thy way,” Nemgas added as he patted the horse on the side of its neck. The horses were restless but they would welcome a short reprieve. Plus, the rest would help them regain their strength too.

“We shalt meet with ye upon the Steppe,” Pelgan announced as he handed the reins to Kaspel. The other Magyar took it with a heavy sigh.

“If ye dost see the Driheli, do not engage them. If they dost see me, they shalt come for me. Then, thou must flank them. Attack from behind.”

“‘Tis the best way to attack,” Gamran opined. The little thief did a pirouette in the air, and quickly sauntered off the path theatrically. “The gods go with thee, Nemgas.”

“And with thee, Gamran,” Nemgas waved once as he watched Gamran, Pelgan, and Amile trod off into the jumbled rubble. It took them a full minute before they were beyond a sudden incline.