The mystery of their origins still baffled even the wisest men. Many theories were bandied about, the most popular being that they were the blighted offspring of the mad, wild women infected with the dreaded qulang disease. Young girls sometimes picked up this strange illness while foraging in the woods, but men never got it. The disease made them progressively more unstable until their villages cast them out to die in the wilderness. The theory was that these women mated with the legendary golden men of the hills and bore the strange male children, Mujar. How the madwomen raised the boys was a mystery too, for they seldom lived long in the wilds.
Mishak finished his food and looked at Chanter, who sat with his head bowed, the empty bowl beside him. With a groan, the old man rose to his feet.
“Untie your legs, then clean the house, do the washing and cut firewood. Understand?”
Chanter nodded, and Mishak went outside to sit in the sun and warm his bones, but the chill wind nipped his nose and soaked through his clothes, forcing him back to the fire. He watched the Mujar work, fascinated by the strange, graceful way he moved. Chanter dusted and polished, his hands achieving separate and entirely different tasks with ease, as if they had minds of their own.
Some learned surgeons had tried to dissect a Mujar once, Mishak reflected, but the results had been predictable. Their subject had objected rather strongly to being disembowelled, and had used the Powers to protect himself. The surgeons had escaped with only a few burns and bruises, for Mujar were reluctant to harm others, even Truemen.
The Mujar mystery remained unsolved. Even torture could not force them to reveal their origins, and their tormentors had deduced that Mujar did not know. Fortunately they were sterile, and the women foolish enough to mate with them never conceived.
Mishak roused from his reverie as Chanter headed for the front door. “Chanter!”
The Mujar halted and turned to face his captor. “Yes, master.”
“Where are you going?”
“Firewood.”
Mishak noted that everything was swept, polished and washed. He rose and approached the Mujar, who was a little taller, his hair almost brushing the lintel. At Mishak’s nod, Chanter opened the door and stepped out into the wind that blew up the valley. Muttering, Mishak donned his cloak and joined him, standing in the lee of the house, where he could watch the Mujar work.
Chanter plucked the axe from the block and fell to his task with a will. The pile of branches dwindled rapidly as he cut them into firewood. Halfway through, he stripped off his torn leather tunic, sweat trickling down his chest. No scar marked it where yesterday the huge wound had been. The lean muscles of his torso rippled as he worked tirelessly through the morning.
Mujar would have made good slaves, Mishak mused, if only they could have been controlled. Chanter’s name gave Mishak enough power over him to ensure he did as he was told while in Mishak’s company, but not enough to hold him should he decide to break his Gratitude. He must tell the Mujar his Wish soon, then Chanter was bound to fulfil it.
When Chanter had stacked the last of the logs, Mishak followed him back into the house. The Mujar curled up on the floor before the fire, and Mishak watched him suspiciously for a moment, but the Mujar made no attempt to reach for the flames. Chanter had completed the tasks that should have taken a whole day before mid-afternoon. Mishak took a ham from a hook under the rafters and hacked a few pieces off, sliced some bread, and joined the Mujar.
Chanter ate his share while gazing into the fire, apparently lost in thought. Questions burnt within Mishak, but he knew the futility of asking a Mujar. He ate his lunch in silence, washing it down with home-made mead.
Chanter looked at him. “Wish.”
Mishak sighed. “Yes. My Wish. I have a son, twenty winters old. Last spring King Garsh’s men press-ganged him into the army and took him away. I’m growing old. Soon I’ll need him to take care of me. I didn’t breed a son to die for King Garsh. You’ll find him and bring him home, Mujar.”
“If he’s alive.”
“They couldn’t have killed him already!” Mishak banged down his cup, slopping mead. “His name is Arrin. He has red hair and brown eyes. Find him and bring him to me!”
The Mujar inclined his head. “Granted.” He rose to his feet, and the air swelled with a Power.
Mishak grabbed the poker. “No Powers in my house! Out, Mujar scum!” Mishak heaved himself out of his chair and brandished the poker. “Fail me, and I’ll curse your name! I’ll send you to a Pit!”
Chanter backed away, opened the door and stepped out into the wind. Mishak followed, curious. Outside, weak sunlight shone through grey clouds. The wind cut through his robe and soaked into his bones. He clutched the poker and gazed at the Mujar, now freed by the speaking of his Wish. Chanter stood poised, at one with the elements, the wind plucking at his clothes and hair. He raised his face to its icy caress, his perfect profile and pale eyes at once savage and beautiful.
Mishak sensed the burgeoning of a Power, and wondered which one Chanter would use. The Mujar took a few quick steps and leapt high, vanishing with a gust of wind and the sound of beating wings. In his place, a barred daltar eagle rose with powerful sweeps of long pinions. When the bird was a dot against the sky’s grey glare, Mishak looked away with watering eyes. Ashmar. Chanter had used the Power of Air to change into a creature of that element.
Mishak shook his fist at the dwindling dot. “You bring my son back, you scum!”
This was the main reason Truemen hated Mujar. They commanded the elements, and could perform feats that Truemen would describe as magic, yet they had the souls of beggars. They lacked pride, ambition, and even self-respect. Nothing could hold them. They vanished whenever they chose, taking on the form they required, for the only thing they seemed to value was freedom. They did not love, nor did they have loyalty or honour. They did not use their powers for good or evil, but lived their hundred years without purpose, content never to use the magic Truemen so envied.
Hill clans were the only people who sometimes struck bargains with Mujar when they found them. In return for food and shelter, Mujar would work in the fields or do menial jobs such as digging cesspits and graves. They would not fell trees, but they would chop wood. Mujar seemed content with this dull existence, and would live out their lives without ever using their powers.
Mishak banged into the house, angry with himself and Chanter. Envy could eat a man’s soul. He considered what he could do with just a tenth of a Mujar’s power, and wondered why it was wasted on these pitiful unmen. When the first Mujar had appeared almost three hundred years ago, begging in towns and digging in the rubbish for scraps, Truemen had pitied them and given them food and shelter. Then some mishap had caused a Mujar to use his power, and pity had turned to fear.
Mishak brewed a pot of tea and settled before the fire. Their fear had lessened when people had discovered that Mujar were harmless. Unless abused or tortured, they would not use their powers against a Trueman. Nor would they help people, however. No amount of riches could buy their aid, nor did blackmail work, and even torture had failed. Some people had given Mujar comforts and earned Wishes, but they were scorned as traitors who became servants of the soulless yellow scum. Trueman pride had bred envy and hate, and Mujar were chased from the cities.
Women had tried to conceive children with Mujar powers, but their bellies had remained empty and Mujar were reviled for this too. Deemed a burden to society, Mujar were beaten until they fled. They had returned again and again, however, moving from city to city like a plague. Attempts to kill them had proven futile, and their unwanted presence had continued until someone had thrown one into a Pit. That had been the beginning of the end of the Mujar scourge.
Mishak sat back and sipped his spicy tea. The little luxury calmed his hatred and restored his good humour. At least one now owed him. Only a Mujar could save his son, and if Arrin lived, Chanter would bring him home.
Chapter Two
Talsy crept through the forest,
her eyes scanning the undergrowth for her quarry. The snow hare had come this way. Its tracks meandered amongst the trees, small marks that must lead to their maker. A snow hare would make a good meal for her and her father. She pushed through a clump of frozen bushes, flinching at the icy leaves’ chill touch. A thick fur jacket and leather leggings kept her warm and protected her from sharp branches, but her fingers were stiff and her feet numb with cold. As soon as she had killed the hare, she could return to the cabin’s warmth to defrost.
Emerging into a clearing, she followed the tracks across it, then froze as the hare appeared on the far side, nibbling withered grass that poked through the thin layer of snow. Notching a hunting arrow into her bow, she took aim and loosed it with a soft buzz. The arrow impaled the hare with a thud, and it screamed, kicking up puffs of snow. She headed towards it, but stopped as low humming whine came from the bushes ahead. It rose to a squeal, and a bog sow burst from the undergrowth, scattering ice. The sow’s engorged udder told Talsy that she had young, and the hare’s scream must have sounded like a distressed piglet.
Talsy leapt aside as the bog sow charged, but the huge tusked pig’s armoured snout struck Talsy’s leg, sending her sprawling. She lay still, hoping the sow would leave once she was certain there was no threat to her piglets. The sow scraped the ground with her tusks, snuffling as she circled the girl, prodding her. Talsy winced. Her jacket protected her torso from the bruising tusks, but her legs would be blue tomorrow. Still, if she moved, she would be dead.
Four fat piglets trotted into the clearing, and their mother turned to them with a low maternal grunt. Talsy’s mouth watered as she remembered the taste of bog boar piglet. Their two hundred pound mother loomed over them, however, a killer when aroused. The bog sow, apparently satisfied that her babies were safe, led them away, and Talsy relaxed. As she tried to stand up, however, pain stabbed up her leg, and she sank down again, biting her lip. From its unnatural angle, her left leg was broken between knee and ankle, and the slightest movement sent shafts of pain through her. She lay panting steam, waiting for the agony to subside so she could think.
When it dulled, she raised her head and looked around, knowing that to lie on the frozen ground for too long was certain death. Gritting her teeth, she crawled towards the trees. Two pieces of wood to splint her leg, another for a crutch, and she would be able to make it home. By the time she reached the trees, she shivered, cold sweat sliming her. Shock made her giddy, and she stopped often to rest so she would not faint.
Amongst the trees, she cut through a sapling’s bark with her skinning knife, snapped it off and stripped off the branches, then shaped it into a splint. She worked quickly, for the day waned and she still had a long journey home. At dusk, her father would search for her, but after dark the wolves would be hunting too. Her arrow pinned the dead hare to a tree, and the scent of its blood would attract predators.
After binding two sticks to her leg with the leather thong from her jacket, she looked for a larger sapling to use as a crutch. A rustle of wings made her swing around, wrenching her leg, and she stifled a gasp. A huge barred daltar eagle landed in the clearing and sank its black talons into the hare’s fur. After a moment of stunned surprise, she pulled another arrow from her quiver and notched it. Eagles were tough and stringy, but it would be a long time before she could hunt again. The raptor’s wings remained spread as it tried to tug the hare free. Beautiful though the bird was, she and her father had to eat. The eagle would provide two meals, in a stew. Although its great black and white striped wings blocked her view, she aimed for where the body should be and let fly.
The arrow’s vicious hiss ended in a meaty thud that warmed her heart. The eagle leapt into the air with a powerful downbeat, then fell, it long pinions splayed across the snow. Talsy smiled. If she waited long enough, she could probably bag a few ravens too. She returned to her task of finding a crutch and crawled towards a suitable sapling.
By the time she had cut the wood to the right length, her hands were numb and shivers cramped her gut. Lying on the icy ground was definitely unpleasant. With the crutch’s help, she pulled herself upright, hopping. She hobbled over to her kills and tied the hare to her belt, then pulled the eagle closer by one wing. The bird flapped, jerking free, and Talsy reached for her knife. The eagle turned its head to look up at her with piercing, brilliant blue eyes. A rush of wind rustled the bushes and the air filled with the sound of beating wings. Talsy recoiled, her crutch skidded and she fell, twisting her broken leg. Dizziness washed over her in a sickening wave, and she clasped her thigh with a groan, striving to stem the wave of pain that washed up it.
When the world stopped spinning, a golden-skinned man dressed in black leather sat where the eagle had been. His silver-studded tunic hung open to reveal a smooth, muscular chest, and her arrow protruded from it, oozing a thin red line down his belly. Worn trousers hugged his slender legs and narrow, scuffed boots shod his feet. His straight jet hair framed a fine-featured face with a sensual mouth and high cheekbones. He pulled her arrow out and tossed it aside. She was awestruck by his wild beauty. He glanced at her, and Talsy swallowed hard. He was Mujar. Her father had told her about the strange unmen, and armed her against them. Once, there had been quite a lot of them, but now only legends remained. The hatred of them had not faded from older minds, but hardly any of her generation had ever seen one. They were all supposed to be in the Pits.
The Mujar scooped up a handful of snow and rubbed it on his wound, grimacing as it melted. After a few seconds, the wound in his chest vanished, and he relaxed. The Mujar rose to his feet, regarded her indifferently for a moment, and turned away.
Talsy raised a hand. “Hey! Wait! Help me, please!”
The Mujar looked at her, pursing his lips. “No Wish.”
She shook her head. “Please, my leg is broken.”
The unman gazed at her with flat, empty eyes, clearly unmoved by her plight. He scanned the glade, and she knew he was going to leave her to the wolves. Reaching into her quiver, she found the white-fletched arrow and pulled it out. Her numb fingers fumbled with the bow as she struggled to notch it. The air seemed to swell, and the Mujar took a few light, running steps, then leapt high. A rush of wind and the sound of beating wings filled the clearing, and a daltar eagle rose into the air, each downbeat carrying it higher. She took careful aim, her heart in her throat. She must not miss this shot.
The bowstring twanged, sending the arrow hissing on its deadly course. It struck the eagle with a thud, making it stagger in mid-air. Its wings folded, and it plummeted to the ground in a spray of snow a few yards from her, where it lay still. Talsy crawled towards it, hoping it was not too badly hurt. Her father had told her to use the gold-tipped arrow on Mujar, but had not detailed its effect. The eagle appeared only to be stunned, and glared at her when she neared it.
Mujar, the accursed undying. She reached for the arrow, then hesitated. What would happen when she removed it? What had her father said? She had not been listening that closely, and now wished she had. Something about owing debts? When she had asked the Mujar for help he had said ‘no Wish’, and ‘Wish’ was one of the words her father had used. If you helped a Mujar, he would grant you a Wish. What was the other word? Gratitude? Yes, that was it.
Sitting up with a grimace, she bent over the bird, which watched her with fierce defiance.
“If I take out the arrow, you owe me, Mujar,” she said. “If I leave it in, you can’t change. You’ll stay a wounded eagle, won’t you? Maybe the wolves will find you and tear you to bits. You can’t die, so what happens? Do all the bits go on living? In a wolf’s intestines?” She shuddered. “Now you need help too. So, if I help you, you help me, agreed?”
The eagle glared at her, and she realised that he could not reply whilst in bird form. With some misgivings, she grasped the arrow and pulled it out, holding it threateningly, ready to stab him again. The daltar’s eyes followed her hand, and its wings quivered. She wondered if it was too badly injur
ed after all. It looked helpless on its back, so she lifted it by one wing and turned it over. It flopped down on its breast, its blood staining the snow, then raised its head and stood up. Its talons dug into the snow, and its wings rested on the ground as if to support it.
Wind rushed around her, making her gasp and raise the arrow. The sound of beating wings filled the glade again, and the eagle vanished. The golden-skinned man reappeared and fell to his knees, his head bowed. His long hair hid his face as he sagged forward onto all fours.
Chanter sat back on his haunches and clasped the throbbing ache in his chest, blood oozing between his fingers. The few moments of utter powerlessness and agony had frightened him. Never had he been cut off from all the Powers, even Dolana. The girl’s arrow had made him helpless, trapped within his mind. Her words had been a meaningless gabble, muffled and slurred, and his sight had darkened and blurred. As the ache receded, he looked at the Lowman girl. The bloody arrow was notched in her bow again, aimed at his heart. He raised his hands in a gesture of appeasement and reassurance.
“Gratitude.”
Her eyes wavered. “For pulling out the arrow?”
He nodded.
“I need help. You were about to leave me.”
“Wish.”
She slumped, lowering her bow. “Any funny stuff and I’ll shoot you again, understand?”
He inclined his head. “Wish.”
“Take me to my father’s house.”
Chanter studied her. It was a small Wish for such a great service, even though the fact that she had shot him in the first place diluted his Gratitude somewhat. Still, without her help he would have been trapped as a wounded bird, unable to change or escape. Her blue-green eyes shone with the feral fear of a survivor born into a harsh world and used to its dangers, but afraid to die. Blonde hair escaped the untidy plait down her back and straggled around her face, which was pinched and blue with cold. A Lowman male, he mused, might have thought her pretty, with her small nose and large eyes, generous mouth and firm chin.