The Broken World Book One - Children of Another God Read Free

Riders had charged, lances lowered to skewer
screaming victims on razor tips. He had been pinned to the ground,
splattered with the blood of those who died around him and the mud
kicked up by the Riders' steeds.
    At the outset,
his presence amongst the warriors had been loudly condemned, and
the men had ordered him to leave the battlefield. He had hesitated,
wishing to remain, and a warrior, incensed by his apparent
defiance, had plunged a spear into his chest. The unexpected impact
had knocked him down, whereupon his attacker had pushed the spear
into the soil, robbing him of his powers. As his clan had been
slaughtered, he had wondered why they had refused his help. Now the
old Lowman had explained it. Pride. A foolish Lowman emotion he did
not possess or understand. They had thought they could beat the
Hashon Jahar, whom they outnumbered threefold, but had lost.
    Chanter's clan
bond had not stipulated any particulars such as protection, only
comforts for work. Had they asked him, he would have saved them,
but instead they had ensured that he could not. After the battle,
the Riders had ransacked the village, chasing down the women and
children. Then the Hashon Jahar had formed up into their orderly
columns and ridden out, trampling him. A passing steed's hoof had
delivered the blow that had robbed him of his senses.
    The stairs'
creaking roused Chanter from his memories in the morning when
Mishak climbed down them. He went to the basin and washed, lighted
the fire, then fried bacon and eggs in a skillet. Chanter remained
silent and still, knowing that the old man, like all Lowmen, hated
him.
     
    Mishak banged a
bowl down beside his prisoner and untied the Mujar's hands,
allowing him to sit up and eat. Mishak longed to question Chanter,
but knew he would get few answers. Chanter's white teeth flashed as
he tore at the tough bacon, reminding Mishak of another reason why
people hated Mujar. A Trueman in his mid-twenties, as the Mujar
appeared to be, would have yellow, decaying teeth, probably with a
few missing. He sucked his own sparsely populated gums with a
grimace. Mujar retained their physical perfection all their lives,
and never became ill or suffered from bad bones or failing sight.
Their only signs of ageing were the greying of their ink-black hair
and perhaps a few lines on their faces. Mujar lived exactly a
hundred years, never a day more or less.
    The mystery of
their origins still baffled even the wisest of 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 wilderness.
    Mishak finished
his food and looked down 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 work. 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 in which he moved. Chanter dusted and
polished, his hands accomplishing 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