Swarm and Steel, page 29
It means, continued Gogoko, ignoring Jateko’s question, that our sorgin are crazy, deranged and delusional. Just like the city-states Geisteskranken. The buruzagi might be in charge of the tribe, but all real decisions are either made by the sorgin or at least after consulting her. And even then the buruzagi is always the man who most wants to be in charge. Have you been listening to Halber Tod’s poems? It’s Gefahrgeist who always want to be in charge.
That’s the way it’s always been, said Abiega, the way it’s supposed to be.
So the sorgin and buruzagi tell us, said Gogoko dryly.
Wait, said Jateko, understanding. That means we let insane people make all the important decisions for our tribe.
Exactly, said Gogoko.
The priest grunted one last time, splashed water onto his arse from the bowl, wiped himself with a few of the sheets of paper, and returned to the camp to wash his hands.
Damn these city-states people are strange, mused Jateko.
Would you judge all Basamortuan by the actions of one man? Abiega asked.
Of course not, said Jateko. Oh.
Harea, swore Gogoko with feeling. Imagine what it’ll be like with a dozen people in here. We’ll never follow a single thought through to its conclusion.
Sorry.
If the sorgin are deranged, said Gogoko, we can’t trust them to make sane choices. Just because the Etsaiaren sorgin wanted Jateko to wreak havoc among the hiria ero, doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.
We’ve followed the sorgin for thousands of years, argued Abiega.
Doing a stupid thing for a long time doesn’t make it smart, said Gogoko.
Gogoko is right, said Jateko. But I’m not here because of the sorgin, I’m here because Zerfall is here. Even had the Etsaiaren not taken her to Santu Itsasoa I would still have followed her. And even if you absolutely proved that following her further would be a bad idea, that it would end in my death, I would still follow her.
I’m not talking about your death, said Gogoko. Would you follow her if it meant thousands of innocent deaths?
Yes, answered Jateko without hesitation.
The All Consuming, Abiega whispered darkly in the back of his mind.
Would you follow her if it meant the death of everyone? Gogoko asked.
This time Jateko did hesitate. How much was too much? To what lengths would he go to save Zerfall?
Save her? Gogoko asked.
I swore I’d bring her back to life. A man’s word is iron.
A man knows when he’s made a mistake.
Another priest, this one gaunt, wandered from the camp toward the shite hole. Jateko recognized her. This was the Hassebrand, the one he wanted. Keeping low, he shuffled closer to the hole, wrinkling his nose at the stench. What the hells did these priests eat? How bad their temple must smell where so many lived in close proximity.
A real man, a warrior, thought Jateko, keeps his word even when he’s made a mistake.
That’s foolish.
Not more than a stride from the pit, Jateko crouched in the dark, motionless. He drew his long-knife and waited. Then I am a fool.
You didn’t answer Gogoko’s question, pointed out Abiega. Would you follow her if it meant the death of everyone?
Jateko drew a deep breath and released it slowly, feeling the muscles in his arms and chest relax. Hunger focussed him. The voices in his head, their endless questions didn’t matter. He was in charge. They could pester all they wanted, but he knew what he had to do. What he was going to do.
Yes, he answered. I’d follow her. Even if it meant the death of everyone.
Gogoko and Abiega fell silent.
The young priestess arrived at the hole, face wrinkling in distaste as she lifted her robes and shuffled about, trying to find a comfortable position to squat. She finally settled, bony knees up around her ears, facing Jateko.
Jateko stifled the urge to curse his bad luck.
The priestess grunted and strained and farted and Jateko wondered what kind of horrendous diet led to such effort for a simple crap. If all the people of the civilized city-states shat like these priests, the cities would be even fouler than he thought.
The priestess’ eyes clenched closed as she strained and groaned. Clutching the long-knife tight, Jateko moved closer, his centre of mass balanced perfectly. Was he strong enough now to take this woman’s head clean off with a single swing?
Only one way to find out.
Now he knew it was going to happen, hunger came roaring out of his guts, washed his thoughts red in blood. Brains. Heart. Liver. He wanted all this deranged woman had to offer; wisdom, strength, and most of all, power. A guttural sound escaped his clenched teeth, the chest-shuddering snarl of the feral beast lurking deep in the mud of his soul. He needed to taste dreams and memories, to savour her essence.
You’re a monster! screamed the Swordsman. She’s just a girl! His disgust ripping through Jateko, souring the moment with revulsion.
Jateko froze, knife raised. I … No … But he couldn’t argue. He agreed.
With an explosive fart and a contented sigh, the priestess’ eyes opened and stared up at Jateko standing over her. With a squeak of terror she hurled herself backward. Jateko swung, the tip of the blade catching her throat as she toppled onto her ass in a tangle of white robes. Leaping forward Jateko found himself ankle-deep in the shite pit. He didn’t care; he had to silence the woman.
The priestess crab-walked backward in a clumsy panic, hands and feet skittering in the dirt, blood from her throat staining her pristine robes. Jateko dove, hoping to slam his blade deep into her chest, and the foot in the pit went out from under him dumping him belly deep in the stench.
Coughing blood and gasping, the priestess rolled to her stomach, scrambling to rise. With a heave, Jateko hurled himself on her back, crushing her to the earth. There’d be no perfect decapitation today. Shoving her head into the dirt and using his own body mass to keep the priestess pinned, Jateko drove his long-knife into the girl’s side, over and over, until the body stopped twitching.
He lay atop the corpse, soaked in blood and shite, listening. Had the priests in the camp heard the struggle? His breath came in short gasps, his heart thudding against his ribs. I did it. I killed their Hassebrand.
The Geborene camp seemed unchanged, unaware of the violence he committed.
The hunger crept forward, a stalking cat. Eat. Eat now. Hunch over your kill and feed like the animal you are.
No.
He had to drag the corpse away, somewhere safer. Back to Zerfall. She’d tell him what to eat first. Where would delusion lie? The brain?
The back of the throat copper-tang of fresh blood tugged at his attention.
Feed. Just a little.
No, I …
A taste.
Lifting his fingers to his nose, Jateko breathed in the hot bouquet. He touched a finger to his lips and his mouth parted, sucking that finger in. Had anything ever tasted so good?
Jateko rolled the priestess onto her back. Skinny arms flopped about, getting in the way and for an instant he thought about hacking this body apart, using its pieces to rebuild Zerfall’s decaying corpse. No, the limbs were all wrong, gangly and weak. He needed something better. It would have to be a custom kill, a victim chosen for the task of—
Focus, you idiot! snapped Abiega.
Right. He had to drag this meat back to—
It isn’t meat, said Grausamer, the Swordsman. It’s a girl.
She’s dead and that makes her meat.
He grabbed the girl’s heels, ready to drag her away. Another glance showed the Geborene camp unchanged. The priests had settled down to their meal.
Just a taste.
Dropping the ankles, Jateko stabbed into the priestess’ torso, hacking flesh away to expose the guts within. Rooting about with his hands, he found a kidney and cut it free. It was beautiful, glistening like a shimmering rainbow, pink and purple. He bit into it, tearing a mouthful free with strong teeth. The flavour, unlike anything he remembered, drew him in and he sat, squatting over the corpse, tearing into the kidney like a ravenous animal.
“Lehrling?”
Jateko blinked up at another Geborene priestess standing over him. She was huge, tall and soft. Her bald head showed a dusting of red stubble and bright, icy eyes stared down at him.
Clutching his knife, Jateko prepared to pounce. He’d cut her down and drag both corpses back to Zerfall. He grinned bloody teeth at her.
Showing no hint of fear the large woman said, “You killed Lehrling.” She sounded like she was in shock, like she couldn’t conceive of what he’d done. Like he’d shattered her reality with his simple act of murder.
Jateko tensed and a wave of heat washed over him, singing his eyebrows and curling the hair on his head. Did I do that? Had eating the Hassebrand’s liver given him some—
Hassebrand! screamed the Swordsman.
What?
The big woman grinned her own mad leer, her lips peeling back to reveal bright, over-large canines. The air around her rippled as the grin became a snarl of rage. Her meaty fists clenched and Jateko’s hair became ash and danced away on a hot wind gusting out of nowhere. Sweat poured down his face and his skin blistered.
Another?
He retreated, backing away, staggering through the shite pit.
She followed, unhurried, like she had all the time in the world and he, Jateko, the All Consuming, was no danger.
“You killed my Lehrling you pig-sticking savage.”
His oihal burst into flames, his skin bubbling.
“You’ll serve!” she screamed, her voice a tearing sob of anguish. “You’ll serve my Lehrling in the Afterdeath!”
Jateko ran.
The grass around him curled from the heat and burst into flames. His tattered oihal baked to ash and came apart. He felt the skin on his back boil, the flesh charring.
He ran.
A concussive blast smashed him to the earth, crushing him like a child crushes an ant beneath its thumb. The world was fire, an inferno of hate and loathing and pain. He screamed and writhed, weakening as his muscles cooked and charred.
His last thought before the black took him was, Run, Zerfall, run.
ZERFALL SAT ASTRIDE TOD, leaning forward so his neck took most of her weight, staring into the dark. Time slid past like a snake in the grass. Overhead the stars spun. She could have been a statue for all she moved. Even her thoughts slowed with nothing to distract her. She felt distant from everything. Untouched.
So this is how they do it, she mused. This is how the dead, lashed to their cacti in the Sea of Souls, pass time. It was frighteningly easy. If Jateko didn’t return, she might stay here forever.
There was noise. It might have been screaming. Loss and rage. It meant nothing.
The sky lit bright, the Geborene tents bursting into flames. Screams of agony cut the air, and she saw a priest sprint toward her, his white robes and hair ablaze. The man, a motile pillar of flame, stumbled and fell at Tod’s feet, writhing on the ground. Zerfall watched, listening to the bubble and pop of cooking flesh. A cacophony of pain echoed the hills and a dozen flickering infernos dashed and staggered in a mad and flailing dance. She watched until each toppled to the earth and lay still, burning and smoking.
Those were priests.
Fire.
Could fire end her? If her body burned to ash would she be free of this rotting prison?
Hassebrand. Jateko went to the camp to kill the Hassebrand. He wanted to eat the girl’s soul so he could light fires of his own. Had he done this, had he started these fires?
That felt wrong. The Hassebrand they saw was barely able to light the camp fire. This was the work of a dangerously powerful and insane Hassebrand, one nearing the Pinnacle, that moment when insanity ran rampant.
Jateko!
Zerfall drove Tod forward with a thought and the horse obeyed, though he hardly rushed. Tod picked his way between the candle corpses, his rear hip clicking and popping with each step. Not once did he lift his head to take in his hellish surroundings.
She found a scorched corpse sprawled in the ashes of what had once been long grass and recognized the Basamortuan long-knife clutched in blackened fingers. Sliding from Tod’s back she collapsed at Jateko’s side when her splinted knee crumpled beneath her, the tent poles snapping. Her right ankle twisted and whatever Jateko used to lash it in place broke. She felt nothing, barely noticing the jagged fragments tearing through her decaying flesh.
Jateko’s bald skull, flesh bubbled and cracked, lay at such an angle she saw his face escaped untouched; he’d been burned from behind. His clothes, that filthy tribal oihal he always fretted over and continually stitched and restitched, was burnt away and his back and legs were seared black, fading to white ash in parts.
He’s dead. Clear fluid seeped from suppurating cracks in his burnt flesh. I let him go alone, and now he’s dead.
She’d been dead and empty for so long she hadn’t even noticed that spark, deep in her belly, rekindling, day after day, with each moment spent in this foolish youth’s presence. Until now.
That spark, it’s me. It’s my soul. Whatever the hell that was. It’s the last of me, the old me. The original Zerfall. Strange that she only felt it in moments of terror, anger, and heartbreak. The spark guttered, threatening to wink out of existence forever.
What then?
She knew the answer.
I’ll sit here at his side. Forever. I’ll watch his flesh rot and decay. I’ll watch the carrion life gather and feed upon his corpse. I’ll see new life bloom from his death. I’ll know no purpose. I’ll wait.
Jateko’s lips, bubbled and burnt, cracked open and a whine of purest agony—impossibly high pitched—escaped.
He’s alive!
But he couldn’t survive these wounds, not for long. He was burned beyond recognition.
“You can’t leave me,” she whispered, close to the broiled remains of his ear.
Jateko whimpered and she wondered if he heard, if he understood her need.
Helpless, she glanced about the burnt field. A dozen bodies, several burning like merry little bonfires, were littered about; the priests had panicked and scattered, fleeing whatever caused the blaze. Of the thin Hassebrand they’d seen earlier, Zerfall saw nothing.
Jateko shivered, twitches and spasms shaking his body. She didn’t touch him for fear of the pain contact would no doubt cause.
“No!” Helplessness tore her, ripped at that weak spark, threatened to drown it in despair.
She had to do something. She had to help him, to save him. “I need you!”
Zerfall ground her teeth, feeling them loose in her rotting skull, as she stared down at the burnt remnants of Jateko’s broad shoulders. She remembered when they first met; the boy had been scrawny and weak in the extreme, his too-large feet flopping and continually threatening to trip him. She remembered the stunned look on his face as he sat in the sand, knife wedged between his front teeth. That gap between his teeth closed with each life he devoured. She wanted to laugh, to cry. Anything. She wanted to experience emotion again—even wretched, soul-tearing heartbreak—as a living, feeling woman.
The gap between his teeth had closed.
Slim, weak shoulders became broad and round with muscle.
He ate and he grew, both physically and in intellect. The wounds he received fighting Abiega healed in days. He ate that warrior, devoured his strength.
A dozen bodies burned nearby.
With a snarl, Zerfall used Tod’s unresisting body to drag herself into a sitting position. Glancing about she spotted the nearest priest. The body lay sprawled, the fire having guttered and died, less than a dozen strides away.
Strides.
She screamed her frustration at the shattered leg sprawled useless before her. She howled hatred at the sky. The gods—Jateko’s desert god Harea, that sick little boy the Geborene worshipped, Wahrergott—could go stick themselves. They were nothing, less than useless.
She screamed at the burnt corpse, so near and yet so far. There had to be a way.
I’ll hold on to Tod’s side. He’ll drag me there.
And then what?
She certainly couldn’t lift a dead body onto the horse’s back. Could she drag it back to Jateko?
The reins!
If she, one-handed, wrapped the reins around the priest, Tod could drag the corpse back to Jateko.
Examining the sun-baked leather she felt her brief moment of hope die. Would they hold? Running a rotting finger over the reins she watched sand and flakes of leather fall away.
She had to try.
Looping the reins around her wrist, she said, “Jateko, hold on. You can’t go.”
“I know you. I know who you are.” Jateko’s voice sounded wrong, the soft roundness of his Basamortuan accent gone.
She glanced at the boy. He hadn’t moved. Had she imagined the voice?
“Let him die,” he said in another voice, the faintest hint of a whisper.
She stared at Jateko, torn between rushing away to fetch him a body and curiosity. “Him?” she asked.
Cracked lips opened, but the body didn’t otherwise move. “He’s a monster. He’ll kill everyone. For you he’d devour all the world.”
“Who are you?”
“Grausamer Schlächter, the Greatest Swordsman in all Geld.”
She snorted and a maggot slid from her nostril. “You’re dead, he ate you.”
Zerfall turned away. This was not Jateko, just the angry soul of some witless Swordsman trying to wreak vengeance on the man who killed him. “Tod,” she said, nodding toward the nearby corpse. “Take me to that body.”
Tod dragged her without complaint, stopping at the corpse, head hanging low over it as if examining the man. Zerfall doubted he was that interested. Clutching the reins in her teeth, she dragged herself to the priest. Whatever grace she may have once possessed was long gone and she mourned its loss. Looping the reins around the corpse’s ankle, she prodded Tod’s tatty leg. “Drag this to Jateko.” She’d follow. She dare not test the reins with their combined weight.
