The Outlaw God

By Dolores J. Nurss

Volume 3: Skirmishes of Souls

Chapter 15
The Small Dead

Monday, March 27, 2705.
 

Night still hung as dark as if the morning would never come, when the outlaw camp woke at the sound of stirrings not attributable to wild things and breezes. Old hands crept for knives in the dark while the toddlers crawled in silence for the invalid's arms; then Zora gave the older one a blade. The cracklings neared, the tension built.
 
"It's us," said Montalban wearily.
 
Trent didn't like the sound of that voice. Without lighting a lantern he called out, "Before you give us a damage report, did you get any loot at all?"
 
Sighs in the shadows answered him. "Yeah," Montalban said. "Some. You can have it." Bagfuls of supplies clattered to the ground.
 
"Okay. Now that we've got that taken care of, tell me the bad news."
 
Don said, "Bran's wounded, for one thing. The bullet only nicked him, though. I've got him bound up, but we'd better clean the wound."
 
"You know where to find what you need," said Trent. "But that's not all, is it."
 
"No," Montalban said, his hard voice chipped on the edge of a sob.
 
"Spit it out, boy."
 
No one said a thing. Trent lit the lantern and held it up.
 
"Where's Morangela?" Zora cried, clutching the two babes close to her.
 
They just stood there, dirty, exhausted, ashamed.
 
"Where is she!"
 
"We heard a scream," Brendi said. "And gunshots."
 
"Heard? You didn't see?"
 
Montalban's eyes pleaded with his "sister". "We had to scramble--you know how it goes, sometimes. Morangela stayed to shut the door behind us, throw them off and..."
 
"You abandoned her," Zora hissed, her eyes reflecting red off the lamp. "You abandoned my sister!"
 
"Zora, I couldn't, I had to..."
 
A knife flashed like Zora's eyes and her teeth clenched together. The other hand still held Rachen.
 
“Oh no, no, Zora, don't, please, I beg you!" He ran forward, but Trent tackled him, while Gustav engulfed Brendi in his bear-huge arms.
 
Zora hissed, "Blood for blood, brother."
 
Don dropped the antiseptic bottle when he heard the child scream, just let it gurgle into dirt. He turned in time to see the shock frozen on Rachen's now-dead face, the hurt of the betrayed. Then bedlam broke out as Montalban and Brendi wailed and cursed and fought the hard old men who held them back. Bran sank against Don and sobbed while the nameless other child ran in circles shrieking in pure mindless panic.
 
"Blood for blood," Trent said. "Get out of here--if you can."
 
Zora nodded, the lamplit red dripping from her breasts and belly. She tottered to her feet, hefted the little corpse upon her shoulder, then staggered over to Incense and kicked her awake. With the zombie's aid she snatched up her bedding and pack, and fled into the forest.
 
Don couldn't stand anymore. "Will somebody please," he cried, "explain what's going on?"
 
"Blood for blood," Trent growled as he let Montalban go. The young man collapsed into Brendi's arms and they wept together, shuddering. "When an outlaw kills or is responsible for the death of another among us, that one's kin may slay either one person of equal kinship to the murderer, or the murderer himself. Only one kin may claim the price, only one slaying--or all hell'd break loose." He stared out into the darkness. “Zora knew she couldn't take on Bran, not in her condition. So she took the babe at hand.”
 
Don's fists tightened till the nails cut flesh, then till the muscles of his arms jerked hard enough to shake his body, then more and more till the violence of his spasms swallowed up the rage.
 
"Sedate that man," Gustav told Bran.

* * *
 

The sky had barely begun to gray when Margie woke to screams. She ran naked out of her “room” straight into Jan, who had the most bewildered look on her face. But instead of words only blood came from her mouth; she fell into Margie's arms, revealing the knife-hilt in her back.
 
Margie heard more screams, then saw the flare of fire and smelled the smoke. She heard voices cry, "Where is it? Where is it? Not here!" Women's voices, she thought at first, haggish and shrill; then she recognized them as male, raised octaves by hysteria.
 
She felt the life seep out of the body in her arms, the deeper sag. She looked about her, blank as to the next move.
 
A monk leaped in front of her, his eyes as wild as the torch in his hand, sweat greasy on his face. "Where is it?" he shrieked.
 
"Here!" Margie shouted as she shoved the corpse into him. While he tangled up in dead limbs she grabbed the torch from his hand, then used it to hold him and others at bay. The firelight played up and down her bare muscles, still strong despite her recent illness. "I haven't got it," she said grimly. "As you see, I've got nothing but myself."
 
The monks shrank from her nudity like they saw a demon.
 
"To me!" she called, fighting down the shivers. "Everybody sane, come to me--we can make it out if we all pull together!"

* * *
 

Morangela pushed through the branches like each one could knock her down. She couldn't remember such exhaustion in her life. Or maybe she could, if only she could get some rest and think straight; there comes a point where all weariness becomes ultimate, transcending comparison. It aches not merely in the muscles, but in the brain and then the heart.
 
Leaves blurred together in the predawn blue, they fuzzed and merged into wall after impenetrable-seeming wall. She couldn't think beyond her bedroll, soft and warm and smelling of rest and safety and familiarity. Only a little while more, and then everyone would run to greet her, glad to see that she came through all right. They'd feed her and dote on her and tuck her into sleep, so right, so wonderfully right to curl up safe with family.
 
The first thing that she saw of camp was the silhouette of Uncle Gustav like an idol-toad upon a log, taking the night shift guarding. Her heart sank. He'd have skipped his last dose to stay alert; he'd be irritable. No matter, she told herself. Even he would rejoice to see her after the fiasco in town.
 
He started at the sound of her approach, which she made no effort to disguise. When she got close enough to make out his features he saw her. He leaped to his feet and shouted, "She's alive! Morangela survived."
 
Morangela grinned wearily, arms outstretched for embrace. But Gustav glared instead of smiled, and next she saw Montalban and Brendi hurtling towards her, knives in hand, their eyes swollen and wild. She heard Trent shout, "Run for it, Mor! Zora slew Rachen for you!"
 
New energy shot through her, a jolt of hysteria that propelled her through the underbrush without regard for scratch or bruise. Behind her she heard Gustav roar, "She's forfeit, Trent! Her or Zora, one or t'other."
 
She clambered up a tree, as fast as her limbs could drag her, till she got to the branches that bent with her weight. Only Brendi could follow her this high--which she did. Morangela heard the husking breath of the teenager, not much heavier than herself, cursing and weeping with a high-pitched growl, twigs rustling and snapping as Brendi clawed her way up.
 
Morangela leaped for a second tree, to limbs that slapped and scored her as they bent beneath her so far that she nearly fell. She scrambled to the trunk, climbed up a bough or two higher, went out as far as she could to the other side, just as she heard the crash in the leaves as Brendi followed her. She glanced back to see the dawnlight glint on the knife in the woman's teeth as Brendi grappled with both hands for her place, curses still hissing around the metal.
 
Morangela leaped again--this time the branch cracked beneath her, but she scuttled off before it broke through. She climbed still higher on this new tree, the trunk so thin that she bobbled back and forth as it swayed.
 
Brendi followed again, but the cracked branch broke beneath her, but not before she grabbed Morangela's ankle. The girl shrieked and kicked like adrenalin drove her insane; she nearly lost her grip on the thrashing tree-top, fear quivering through her as the above-forest wind hit her sweat, but Brendi lost her grip instead, falling and falling through leaves after leaves in a long clatter down till the crash at the end and the wail of injury, Morangela couldn't care less what happened, just anything to keep her enemy from killing her.
 
Morangela listened to her former kinswoman's pain and she bared her teeth, shivering on the highest branches, bleeding from scratches all over her. She would have to travel by treetop for the rest of the night, till she could find Zora and team up with her. Sisterless back is bare.

* * *
 

Merrill pulled in to the little harbor at Respite Beach just as dawn washed the sky like it did its best to make up for the black-on-black of night. When he cut the motor he heard the sleepy sound of early-birds singing for their breakfast. He yawned and rubbed the stubble on his chin. Then he turned and woke Deirdre. He let Lisa sleep, curled up on the leather with her mouth a bit open; she had taken over last night when he couldn't keep his lids parted.
 
Deirdre stripped in the back seat, then strapped her new flit onto her chest and legs. He winced to watch the leather-padded struts touch the raw shins where the car had dragged her. Then she pulled her clothes on over it, winked at Merrill, and got out of the car looking quite ordinary--if a little sickly. By happy chance the brown of the leather matched the torn trousers; you’d have to look twice at the knees to catch the difference. Moving stiffly, she shouldered the pack that he'd brought for her, the relic now inside it. Merrill didn't like the sound of her wheeze. "You shouldn't have to wait long," he said. "These small-town ferries move early."
 
She smiled and said, "Yeah. I know."
 
“You gonna be all right without shoes?”
 
“Merrill, how often have you seen me go barefoot for no reason at all?”
 
“Good point.”
 
She laughed. “I'm glad you care, though.” She took in the sights and scents of the leading edge of morning, then suddenly hugged him. "Thanks, Merrill--thanks for everything."
 
He hugged her back and laughed with her. "You think I'd let my best little girl fight mad monks all by herself?" She didn't reply; both knew that she'd once again have to travel far from the reach of her friend's protection.
 
He gave her a tussle of the head (even though he had to reach up, now, to do it) and pushed her towards the boats. "You'd better go, kidita--that looks like the ferryan, now." A man strode by with purpose towards the docks, followed by some farmers with pushcarts full of produce for Sandurste across the Gulf. Deirdre went to join them with a wave and "Goodbye!"
 
"Goodbye," he called back. "And find a comb--your hair's even worse than normal."
 
She gave him one final laugh and shook her tangles at him, one long hank of it still in the remains of a braid, then stepped as lightly into the boat as if she enjoyed good health.

* * *
 

Alroy rubbed his eyes and his hands came back wet. He stared in surprise, then felt tears spill down his cheeks without explanation. Then he sneezed, and sneezed again as his sinuses filled up. "Oh, good," he said. "It's starting.”
 
As he strode down his halls a telepathic gnome ran up with handkerchiefs of the rare True Silk. He blew his nose on one after another and strewed them behind him, but they didn't relieve his condition.
 
"How awful," he said, feeling worse by the minute. "How wonderfully awful." He smiled and yawned as the sweat cut loose.
 
"I will require frequent liquid replenishment," he announced to his servants. "No alcohol. Pure, cool, mineral-water sounds best right now." Creatures scuttled for carafes. Actually, many things sounded far better to him than mineral-water, including but not limited to mere alcohol. But he had elevated himself to the point where he alone had the strength to deny himself anything; he chose now to exert that authority. "I shall be my own Higher Power," he chuckled, and then broke into a truly impressive thunderstorm of sneezes.
 
Addiction: The permanent, perverted rewiring of survival instinct (in its nature guided by discomfort as an indicator of poor health and by its absence as good) to mistake intoxication for superhealth and its absence for dying. One did not suffer from any lack of willpower; indeed the greater the will the deeper the trap, for addiction hijacked the will, believing it a matter of life and death to seek further intoxication. One had to find something worth dying for, therefore, to maintain sobriety. And would one as long-lived as Alroy embrace death, if this enabled him to take down the Tilián? Gladly!
 
They started it, he told his heart. They perverted my brother's survival instinct till he couldn't live without love.
 
"Take a message, Emerald." He knew that she fluttered somewhere behind him. "I am putting out an all-points bulletin: The monks have failed me. I want the relic of the Devil-child reclaimed and brought to me. Send it through the usual channels, with a complete description, scar by scar. I believe Blackie still has that--she did survive my merry monks, did she not? After she reported? You don't know? No matter. I can give it to you again." Now the headache kicked in, a nuministic kind of throb, chastening, purifying...daunting.
 
He turned and saw the fear that widened the eyes of his servitors. "I told you to sed a bessage, Eberald. Go sed it."
 
The rest still stared at their god, who appeared to sicken before their eyes. "All this goes accordig to plad," he said, gesturing irritably with yet another handkerchief. "I have ebbarked upod a bystical ordeal. Voludtarily. All gods do, you doe."
 
He accepted a glass of water, but it coiled in his belly like an ice-cold snake. He dismissed his slaves and carried a carafe into his gameroom.
 
He stepped out onto the board, surveying his evermore complex rendition of Til Territories, his wax dolls and counters and cardboard architecture. He nodded and moved to certain institutions of mass-communication, where minor operatives of his worked. As he laid hands on them, Archives felt the tingle of his will through magentine connections.
 
I don't know where you are, Deirdre Keller, he thought, but I don't have to. Somewhere she would hear a song, from a passing GEM, piped into a store, playing from the window of a home. The message would follow her, tailored to her fevered confusion, follow and find and weaken her.
 
He drew back his hands. As he knelt over his creations sweat dripped from his hair to leave dark spots on the cardboard. Already the first ghosts of aching haunted his bones.
 
He embraced the suffering; he raised his hands and let it sweep him as a purifying force. If I am truly to be a shadow of all faiths, then let me now shadow the ayahuascan journey, he thought. Let the absence of psychoactives lead me to the visionary state.
 

* * *
 

Jimmy read the message that his aide delivered to his desk. Nasty sounding artifact, but when, over the years, had he ever ask for anything nice? Jimmy felt the word, nice in his mouth, how it formed his lips into a sneer, as he read on. Whoever got it would get the usual perks, et cetera, et cetera, welcome enough as short-term rewards go, but Jimmy kind of outgrew all that years ago while watching Alroy reap the long-term power.
 
Jimmy stretched and his well-tailored suit matched each move perfectly, despite the bulk of muscles surprising in one his age. He yawned, called in a slave and ordered coffee--caffeinated--with his breakfast. While he waited he stepped out of his office to the catwalk that surveyed the innards of his factory from several stories up. He did his best thinking while he watched his people work.
 
Lint snowed the air as the textiles wove and spun, humming like hornets. Machine-dwarfed people ran this way and that to catch the threads or keep the machines on line. He admired all the pretty, pretty colors in dyes that the Tilián condemned but people with an eye for beauty coveted. What's a few toxins, so long as you made sure you never poisoned anyone who mattered? Really, the Tilián had no taste, no appreciation of the finer things of life. He hadn't either, actually, till Cicero brought a little culture to the outfit. Good man, Cicero--once you knew how to control him.
 
People born in Rhallunn weren't supposed to have brains, but Jimmy did, in bucket-loads and bushels. That's how he got out of there. He could learn anything--culture, crime, magic, the chemical composition of lovely if illegal dyes. That's why Alroy had to make a prophet out of him--Jimmy just couldn't bother playing the chump for long, once he knew where the action lay.
 
Prophet! He snorted in amusement at the title. Who needed converts when plain ol' fashioned slaves served just as well? He watched his people dart about, frantic to please him without the consolation of religion. He hated the baby-faces of the true believers--those with never a thought to wrinkle their brows. He gave his people plenty to think about--and if they aged prematurely, well, that just showed he'd had an impact, right? That his authority meant something.
 
Of course the rigmarole helped. Intimidate someone with violence and sooner or later they'd figure a way to out-muscle you. Best 'em and they'd match you again some time later--you could make strong enemies that way. But scare them with the supernatural and you'd knock the spunk right out of them. Especially if some of it was real.
 
He watched the eyes that kept twitching his way, the jaws that slackened like his presence weakened face muscles the same way that he weakened souls. He leaned over the rail and spat, then chuckled as the workers scrambled all over each other to dodge, believing that his saliva carried curses. Power. Visible, tangible power. That's what slavery meant.
 
But he could use some more. Always. He had a factory, big deal, about the size of a penny-ante village. He could use a dictatorship. Why not, when Alroy aimed for the world itself and Heaven and Hell besides? A little more would do him fine, a little country, not even a big one, just some self-sufficient farms and factories and schools and offices and churches and stores and all of 'em full of people scared to death of Jimmy, worshiping Alroy as the Lord of All, of course, but knowing that Jimmy would butter their bread or poison it.
 
He went back to his office, redolent now of coffee. He sat on the desk and contemplated the blow-by-blow description of the little corpse. Alroy was no more a god than he a prophet, but he never doubted Alroy's power for a minute. He'd seen what it took to convince him on the Island of Blessings. Power he respected, magical or otherwise. He knew a thing or two himself--a lot more than he let on.
 
"There's a gregor-force in this thing," he said, tapping the sketch that the company telepath had drawn. Could he utilize it himself? Maybe. Could he find it? Certainly. Should he hand it over to Alroy, as meek as one of the slaves that he'd broken himself...?