Young Writers Society

Chapter Two-

On Sorrows Day, they rang the bells.

“F-four hundred and ninety seven…”, Fyn whispered. He took a shaky step, heaving a breath as he hauled the great stone block up the steps. He took another step, stumbling slightly, and winced-- But no whip came this time. The taskmaster paced behind him, arms behind his back, gazing out onto the city.

The bell tolled again.

“Four hundred and ninety eight..”

The bell was far louder, up near the peak of the Salvation. The whole spire seemed to ripple with each ring, scaffolding trembling and creaking in the wind. Not that Fyn noticed any of that-- He had long since learned to keep himself distracted.

So today, he counted the bells.

“Four hundred and ninety nine…”, he whispered, arms groaning under the weight. He distantly thought he might have heard the taskmaster bark something, but he-- He couldn’t--

He stumbled again, slumping down to his knees for a moment. The block was slick with sweat in his hands. Beside him, the others crawled by, their gazes fixed ahead, staring at nothing. Most had it easier-- Heaving the blocks in small wheelbarrows, or hauling a sled along by a rope-- But not by much, certainly not on an empty stomach.

He slowly rose.

A growl rose from the pit of his stomach, and that turned his mind to rations. The weight on his arms seemed a bit lighter with relief so close. They were nearly at the top now-- It had taken the entire day to haul just one block per head up here. Not that that so much mattered-- There were plenty of slaves.

Briefly, he felt his gaze drawn out towards the city. From a distance, Kharn was a sloping, slate-grey mess of shattered stonework and ruined buildings, all of it laced with dusty canals and spires thrown at odd angles. Towers lay on their side as if flung by some clumsy God, grand statues were strewn across the landscape like toy soldiers. Around it all swept a great wall, lined with the Beacons. Somewhere under his feet, the bell rang.

“Five… hundr--”

A terrible, jarring force broke his thoughts as something slammed into the side of his head. He felt the stone steps slip out from beneath his feet in a blur of wind and colour, leaving him dangling, held by---

A hand.

He found himself looking into the cold eyes of the taskmaster, dangling off the scaffolding from his neck, his toes barely grazing solid ground.

“What was it you were told about muttering that nonsense, heretic?”, the taskmaster said coldly, the gauntleted hand clutching the edge of Fyn’s tunic. Fyn tried to think of a reply, but nothing came to mind.

“I should have you flayed for that”, the Taskmaster said, hefting the whip just slightly, “But tell you what-- I’m in a generous mood.” With that he tossed Fyn back onto the steps like a wet towel. The taskmaster bent down, hefting the rock Fyn had been carrying, and dumped it on the sled of another slave nearby. The man pulling the sled squeezed his eyes shut under the added weight, knuckles white.

“Now,” said the Taskmaster, turning back to Fyn, “You go run along and find yourself another load-- And be quick about it. This fellow will take the flaying for you.” With that, he turned, white cloak sweeping behind him to survey the others.

Fyn didn’t bother argueing. The taskmaster had long since realized Fyn didn’t mind the whip a bit-- So he had found another way-- A far worse punishment. The slave in question continued the shamble past, eyes empty.

Fyn lay slumped against the stairs for some time, looking out across the glassy grey sky. His palms were bloody and damp, his legs aching, his tunic clinging to him.

He got up, eventually, bracing himself against the stone wall as his vision spun from the fatigue. He began to walk.

The descent passed in a half-conscious blur and he wound his way through the trembling scaffolds and heaving walls that made up The Salvation. Dozens and dozens of others worked, heaving blocks and supports under the eyes of the taskmasters. The taskmasters ignored Fyn for the most part-- He was close enough to ration time not to raise suspicion walking alone.

Eventually, Fyn found himself at the base of the Salvation, near the slave-quarters. Only the thought of food drove his legs. The rations might have been half of the already meagre amount given to the freemen, but that didn’t so much matter-- Slaves were, after all, expendable. The church never had much trouble bringing in more heretics.

He collected his ration from the counter and made for his usual spot by the great tents set up under the shadow of the Salvation. Really, the slave-quarters was just a cleared out section of street lined tents to house the slaves, without much in the way of security or even a clear border. There wasn’t much threat of escapees, after all.

Fyn ran a finger along the brand at his cheek-- The thing still burned, sometimes. The food was gone before he even comprehended eating it. His stomach still ached.

Something thumped to the ground at his feet.

He glanced down at the thing blearily.

It was a loaf of bread.

“Fyn, is it?”, a voice said-- A man’s, partially muffled. Fyn glanced up, and found a man towering above him, wearing a great overcoat and broad-brimmed hat. A scarf concealed his mouth, and his hands were gloved.

Fyn nodded.

The man pulled his hat low as a breeze whipped past.

Who is he, walking into the slave quarters?, Fyn thought. Even on Sorrows Day, with the Priests busy, this sort of thing could arouse suspicion. And attention was the last thing a man in Kharn needed, nowadays-- Especially a slave.

Fyn glanced at the Slave-quarters. He was at least half an hour early for rations-- A pang of guilt surfaced at that thought-- And so the place was mostly empty. He sat between two tents, braced against a stone wall, largely out of sight.

Which of course, begged a question.

Just how did he know I was here?

The stranger sat down against the wall next to Fyn, and nodded towards the bread.

“That’s for you. Go on, you’re like a damned twig”, he murmured under the scarf.

Fyn reached for the bread, unwrapping it. The thing was still warm, and nothing at all like the dry, knotted stuff that got pushed over the ration counters.

“This is Priest’s food”, Fyn observed, tearing off a chunk. He looked at the stranger searchingly. The man with the hat nodded absently, eyes fixed somewhere else.

“So what is it you want?” Fyn asked finally.

For a moment, the man was silent.

“Nyaar uhm, pthumeru ul ghtuul’il’takhas”.

Fyn froze. Slowly, he turned towards the man.

“How… where did you learn that?”

“Something I picked up, let’s say. I never did learn what it meant. But you know, don’t you?”

“I…” Fyn murmured, turning away, “...I don’t do that anymore.”

“But you can still read them, can’t you? The Old Words?”, there was an edge in the stranger's voice. The man stared at Fyn intently.

Fyn rose slowly, leaving the loaf on the ground.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I’m not who you’re looking for”, he said quietly, making to leave quickly. A hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“I need a man of your talents-- You understand?”, he said firmly, “I think we both know you might very well be one of the last”.

Fyn stopped.

“Listen”, the man pressed, “I’m not asking for charity-- But Gods know that even if I wasn’t going to pay you a stub for this, it’d be in your interest”.

“What do you mean by that?” Fyn turned-- And froze.

Because the stranger had removed his scarf.

Fyn suddenly felt something-- A dizzying sense of-- What was it? Recognition? He thought he had felt it before. A terrible, creeping-- Guilt?

“...Who are you?”

The stranger walked past, wrapping his scarf around his face again. In the distance, there was the low clamour of chains are the slaves returned from their shifts and made for the ration counter.

“Meet me a few hours from now-- Down in the Harrows, they’ve an old bar called the Gale-House. Ask for a room in the attic”.

With that, he strolled away, gravel crunching underfoot.

“What makes you think I’m following you?”, Fyn asked, turning to where the stranger stood silhouetted in the cold light.

Overhead, a bell tolled. Fyn felt his legs quiver slightly, threatening to give out in exhaustion. His hair was matted, his joints ached and stiffened.

“You will”, the stranger replied, glancing over his shoulder.

With that, he vanished.

Fyn lay slumped between the tents for some time, taking care that neither he-- Nor the bread he’d been given-- Were seen. Overhead, the clouds heaved and buckled, and a light rain began to fall.

He tilted his face upwards, letting the rain wash over him. He tried to keep his thoughts straight, tried to focus on the Stillness, like Jindal had always said. But his thoughts kept shifting to one thing.

“Nyaar uhm, pthumeru ul ghtuul’il’takhas”, echoed the words of the stranger.

Fyn knew those words. Not because he could read the Old Words. Not because he had heard them so many times before. But because they felt natural. They lingered on every faded statue, every dusty spot where something grand had once stood.

“The Gods are gone”, Fyn whispered to the rain.

“Man has betrayed them”.