Two days later, they entered the lowlands' warmer climes. Broad belts of woodland dissected rolling meadows that herds of grazing beasts populated. An occasional herder's hut stood at the edge of a forest, smoke curling from its chimney, but for the most part the land was wild. Wagons and horsemen traversed the roads, so Chanter avoided them.
In the middle of the third day, a sprawling city came into sight ahead, on the banks of a mighty brown river. A chequerboard of cultivated fields surrounded it, divided by low stone walls and tended by brown-clad peasant farmers. Chanter stopped, and Talsy slid from his back, pulling off the bag. A surge of Earthpower transformed him back into a man, and he gazed at the city.
"I'm not going in there," he said.
"We need a bridge to get to the other side," she pointed out. "And besides, I have to buy provisions. I can hunt for meat, but we need flour, salt, sugar and tea."
He shook his head. "I don't need a bridge, nor do I need to be beaten and spat on, then thrown into a Pit."
"But I may need your protection."
Chanter eyed her. "Why would you need protection in a city?"
"There are thieves and... bad men. It isn't safe for a woman to travel alone in a city."
He glanced at the sky, reminding her of his wild inclinations, and her father's words returned to haunt her.
"You could become the stallion. Who would know?"
"Everyone. The woman in the woods wasn't fooled, was she?"
"You can't change your eyes, can you?"
He shook his head.
"Surely they can't harm you? You can simply fly away if they try."
"I might not see them coming."
Talsy sighed and gazed at the greatest obstacle they had yet encountered. Her people, a dire threat. An idea came to her. "What about if you came as a bird and watched over me from the sky? Then you'd be safe."
He looked uneasy. "Not from arrows."
"Don't leave me," she pleaded.
"If they catch me, they'll throw me in a Pit."
"I won't let them. I'd rescue you somehow."
The Mujar did not appear to hear her. "The Pits are living death. We can't escape them, nor can we die."
Tears stung her eyes. "Even if I had to come down there after you, I wouldn't let you stay in a Pit."
He looked startled. "You'd do that?"
She nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat.
Chanter said, "I've granted you the Wish of protection, so I'll come as a bird."
Talsy wanted to hug him. He had not intended to leave her, only voiced his doubts. He picked up the bag and set off towards the city, keeping his eyes down. When the people they encountered on the road gave him hard looks, he stopped and dumped the bag.
"I shouldn't go any closer. There was a time when Mujar could live in the cities, but not anymore."
"Okay."
"I'll see you on the other side. I'll be watching."
Again she fought the urge to hug him. He took a few light steps and leapt into the air. The rush of wind raised a dust cloud, and the sound of beating wings filled air, then a raven winged away into the blue sky. Talsy watched until he was a dot against the heavens, picked up the bag and trudged towards the city.
Passing through the gates, she entered a bustling, dirty place charged with vile smells and raucous noise. After the sweet, clean freedom of the quiet forest, Talsy resented the pushing people who thronged the streets and the cries of hawkers who waved their wares at her and pushed their leering faces close. She shuddered away from the unsavoury goodies they offered, swept along by the rude crowd. Puddles of filth made the footing treacherous. Animal dung and urine mixed with slops thrown from the houses. Beggars clutched her sleeve and whined, well-dressed people pushed her aside.
Stopping at a marketplace set in a garbage dump of rotting unsold wares, she bought what she needed with a few of her meagre collection of coins. Her stomach rumbled as she hurried past inns whence the savoury smells of stew and roasting meat emanated, eager to be free of the city and reach the far side of the river. For a girl born and raised in the country, the town was a nightmare of overcrowding and squalor, a dirty maze of twisted streets lined with dilapidated houses, skinny children playing in the gutters.
Arriving at a broad bridge built from mighty timbers, she started across, then stepped back in confusion when two spear-toting guards blocked her path. One leered at her and thrust his unshaven face close.
"This is a toll bridge, woman. You got the money?"
She shook her head. "How do I cross?"
He gestured with his rusty weapon. "Use one of the others. Some are free."
The narrow alley he indicated ran upstream beside the river. Her good sense told her to stay in the busy thoroughfare, however.
The guard winked at her. "You could make payment in kind."
Talsy recoiled from his revolting invitation and hurried down the alley. Sagging shanties bordered it, and the stench of urine and human manure made her queasy. Skinny dogs foraged in the rubbish, and rats squeaked and scurried along the edges. Crippled, filthy beggars, no more than bundles of stinking rags with outstretched claw-like hands, clutched at her as she passed. Feral children watched her with empty eyes, their ragged clothes revealing swollen bellies and twisted limbs. She wondered why the city folk, who reviled Mujar for refusing to help them, did not care if their own people starved and suffered in this terrible place. Why should Mujar help those who would not even help each other?
Reaching a dilapidated bridge, she headed for it, but a gang of beggars blocked her way, hands outstretched.
"Toll! Pay toll!" they cried, jumping into her path when she tried to sidestep them.
Ignoring her protests, they persisted until she gave up and carried on along the alley in search of a bridge that neither soldiers nor beggars claimed. Further on, she came to a rude barricade that forced her to turn into a side street leading away from the river. At the next junction, she entered a narrow road running parallel to the spate, and searched for a way back to the bank. The alleys twisted and turned in a fiendish maze, and she soon realised that she was lost. She looked up at the rows of crows that lined the rooftops, preening and calling harshly. If only she had wings.
The afternoon dwindled as the sun sank towards the mountains, out of sight in this endless warren of foul streets. Dusk would soon fall, and she still had to pass through the second half of the city, on the other side of the river, before she was free of its squalor. By now, she had no idea which direction to take. Tumbledown huts blocked her view on every side. An old blind beggar squatted beside the road, rattling a tin cup in which a few stones resided, and she approached him.
"Can you tell me how to get to the river, old man?" she asked.
He rattled his cup. "Coin for aid, missy."
Talsy fished out a copper and dropped it into the cup. The old beggar pulled the cup into his ragged robes and cackled. "Foolish woman. How do I know where the river is? I'm blind!"
"Surely you know where you are?"
"Somewhere in the accursed slums."
Talsy groaned. "But is it east or west?"
"No idea." The beggar cackled again, revealing shrunken, toothless gums.
Talsy cursed him and walked on. The heavy bag dug into her shoulder and her legs ached. She tried to remember whether she had been walking towards the setting sun when she had been on the thoroughfare. Then it had been closer to noon, however, and harder to tell which way was west. Vainly she searched for an alley that led west, hoping it would take her to the river, but each one she turned into curved away from the sun. The narrow streets were deserted now. Even the beggars had vanished into their shelters for the night. Gathering gloom filled the city as the sun sank. No lights shone from the shanties, and only a few street lamps illuminated the grimy roads.
Just as she wondered if she should find a hole to crawl into for the night, a rattle behind her made her jump and swing around. Four burly men approached her, their dirty, unshaven faces twisted in knowing leers as they fingered sticks and rusty knives. One had a longbow slung across his back, and his bright, mocking eyes raked her above a gap-toothed grin.
"Well, well, what have we here, boys? A little bird lost in the woods."
His cronies chuckled, and Talsy backed away, unslung her hunting bow and notched an arrow. The roughnecks' leader guffawed.
"She's got some little pins, lads, look at that! Not a bird, but a little vixen, hey?"
"Leave me alone," Talsy said, aiming at his face. Even a hunting arrow through the eye could be deadly.
The leader's smile faded, and he unslung the longbow, drawing a wickedly barbed war arrow from the quiver on his back. "You want to play with fire, hey? Mine's bigger than yours, little girl."
The men sniggered and stepped closer. Talsy tried to keep them all in her sight, but two slunk along the sides of the alley behind her. "Call them off, or you get it!" she shouted at the leader, who grinned and began to bob and weave mockingly.
A brigand rushed her from the side, and she let fly the arrow with a vicious buzz. The leader yelled as it hit him in the shoulder, and his crony swept her off her feet, laughing. Talsy dropped her bow and pulled out her skinning knife, slicing her captor's cheek open to the bone. He bellowed and dropped her. Springing up, she dived for the shadows, but another man grabbed her wrist and swung her around.
Talsy's wild swing drew a bloody line across his chest, and he smacked the knife from her grasp. It landed somewhere amongst the garbage with a tinkle, lost in the gloom. The other men closed in around her. She sank her teeth into the hand that gripped her arm, and the brigand cursed and released her. Again she tried to make a run for it, but another ruffian tripped her up, and she sprawled in the refuse. A man pinned her down, grabbed her flailing arms and flipped her onto her back.
The leader appeared above her, his brows knotted and mouth twisted. Blood seeped down the front of his dirty brown tunic from the arrow wound in his shoulder. She had injured three out of the four, but was now helpless. While one man held her, another pulled at her clothes. He found her purse and mocked it, then tugged at the thongs that bound her jacket. The leader leered down at her.
"You're going to pay for this, bitch! I'm going to tear you apart!"
The cutthroat unfastened his trousers while the other man used his knife to cut her jacket's thongs, pulling it open. Talsy tried to kick whoever she could reach, but they laughed at her futile efforts. She yelled for help, and the man slapped her, making her eyes water and her ears ring.
"That's right, scream, bitch! I love to hear you scream," the leader snarled.
Talsy shrieked again when the man who straddled her beat her head on the ground, his hands around her throat.
A flash of fire ripped the air apart. An inferno engulfed them with the stench of burning and crackle of flames. Talsy screamed, and her tormentors swore in fearful confusion. The manifestation vanished, and she discovered that she was sheathed in blue fire. The man who pinned her down leapt away with a bellow of pain, beating the flames that had ignited on his greasy clothes. The others recoiled, brushing at singed brows and hair, cursing foully.
Talsy panicked, beating at the fire that licked her skin, but it did not burn. As her attackers retreated, it followed, surrounding her in a ring of flame six feet high. She scrambled to her feet and pulled her jacket closed, glaring at the wide-eyed men who stumbled back from the spreading fire, holding up their arms to ward off the heat. No heat touched her, and the blue flicker lighted the filthy slums with a ghostly glow. The leader cursed as he realised what was going on.
"Mujar! She's got a damned Mujar protecting her!" he shouted, and reached for his longbow. His cronies turned this way and that, scanning the surroundings. Talsy searched for a way to flee, sure that the ring would let her through, but the cutthroats were still all around her. The leader notched an arrow and looked around, then up.
"There!" He raised the bow, and she glanced up in horror. An owl perched on a nearby roof, its eyes glowing silver-blue in the flames. As the man took aim, Chanter spread his wings and leapt into the air. The man drew the bow and released the arrow with a savage, buzzing hiss. It struck the owl in a cloud of snowy feathers. His wings folded, and he plummeted, flapping.
"Chanter!" Talsy screamed, and tried to run to him as the circle of fire died. The air filled with a rush of wind and the sound of beating wings. The owl vanished, and Chanter sat up, gripped the arrow shaft that protruded from his flank and jerked it out. He started to rise to his feet, and the four men rushed him. Two crashed into him so hard they sent him sprawling on his back, and one plunged a knife into his belly. Chanter twisted with cat-like grace, trying to scramble up and flee. The men leapt on him, forcing him onto the ground. A savage jerk of his arm knocked a cutthroat sideways with a yell of surprise. The others pinned him down, beat him about the head with their clubs and stabbed him with rusty knives.
Chanter summoned Crayash again, the air screaming with fire, and wielded it in an explosion that forced the thugs to leap back with yells of pain, their skin reddened and hair singed. They were upon him again with renewed vigour, shouting foul obscenities and insults. Again he wielded the fire, with identical results. The men clearly knew he would not kill them. The flames were merely painful, which only made them cut him more.
"Chanter!" Talsy screamed, as blood oozed from his wounds. The air filled with the sound of beating wings. The men cursed as a swirling wind sprang up to buffet them, picking up dust that blinded them. One man fell back with a cry, pawing at his watering eyes, the others beat Chanter harder with the clubs, trying to knock him out. A rush of fire joined the wind in a maelstrom of blazing dust. A thug rolled away, beating at his burning clothes, another screamed as his hair caught alight. The Mujar's struggles weakened, but the thugs continued to rain blows on him.
"Chanter, kill them! Burn them!"
Talsy overcame her fear and ran forward to pick up a stone. The leader turned and raised a bloody knife. She stopped and threw the rock, which landed with a clatter in the darkness beyond. The cutthroat jumped towards her, making her stumble back with a cry as the knife drew a line of blood down her arm. She bent and picked up another stone, then froze at Chanter's cry.
"Talsy, run! Go! Don't let them catch you. I can't help you now!"
Talsy looked at the gang leader, who revealed rotting brown teeth in a feral grin. He stepped towards her, and she hurled the rock. It hit his chest, making him growl.
"Talsy, go!" Chanter's shout was cut off as one of his captors hit him in the face with a club. The swirling fire died as the Mujar slumped, unconscious.
Talsy hesitated only a moment longer, then, when the leader charged her, she shrieked and fled into the darkness. Garbage squelched under her feet and rats scurried from her path. Her sobbing breath drowned out the thuds and grunts of the beating that Chanter still underwent, even though he was unconscious.
By the time she stopped, she gasped through a throat raw from screaming, her lungs burnt, and she shook with shock and exhaustion. She leant against a shanty wall and gave in to uncontrollable sobs of misery and rage. One thought pounded in her brain and gave her solace. They could not kill him. No matter what they did, they could not kill him. They could certainly make him suffer, however, and ultimately they would throw him in a Pit. Because of her.
Chanter paid the price for her stupidity in getting lost in the slums and not seeking shelter from the prowlers when all the others had. Now she regretted asking him to protect her; better that she had been raped and beaten than for Chanter to be thrown into a Pit. Living death. Before that, he would suffer at the hands of cruel, pitiless men who hated Mujar with a fanatical intensity born of envy and contempt.
As her breath slowed and her pounding heart quieted, she regretted running so far to escape the sight and sounds of the brutal beating, and the stench of blood and sweat. She should have stayed close enough to follow them and rescue Chanter. Her cowardice filled her with shame and rage at her weakness and inability to defend herself, which had drawn the Mujar into this terrible situation. Afraid that she had lost him forever, she tried to retrace her steps, but in the darkness she soon realised she was hopelessly lost. Fresh tears coursed down her cheeks as she slumped to the ground in despair, hating herself for bringing such suffering to the gentle Mujar.
Chanter became aware that someone dragged him along the road by his legs. He wondered why Lowmen always vented their hatred in savagery and bloodletting, even when they knew they could not kill him. Perhaps to make him suffer, yet Mujar did not feel pain like Lowmen did. The real pain came with healing, not injury. Dolana filled him, draining his energy and will. He longed for Crayash, but it would not answer his call, denying him even a little warmth. His grasp on the Power had been snuffed when he had lost consciousness, and now he could not regain it.
His head bounced over rocks on a rough dirt street, then grated on smoother cobblestones. It seemed his captors had broken almost every bone in his body. Certainly his arms and legs were fractured, some of his ribs, and maybe a few others. Pain burnt in him with hot intensity, fuelling his dull rage. He opened his eyes.
The two men who dragged him stopped, and another banged on a stout door. After a few moments, a sour-face man opened it.
"What do you want?"
The man held up a lantern to examine the dirty group before him. He noted their burns and bruises with a scowl, clearly deducing that they had been in a fight. His eyes fell on Chanter, and he leant closer with an oath, then straightened with a startled curse.
"That's a Mujar!"
The thugs' leader leered. "We know. That's why we brought 'im. Thought you an' yer cronies might like to cut 'im up afore he goes in the Pit."
The man stroked the grey goatee that sprouted from his pointed chin. "Yes, yes, we would." He eyed the thug. "How much do you want?"
The cutthroat leader shrugged, trying to look casual before naming a high figure. The two wrangled for a few minutes before agreeing on a sum. The bearded man, whom Chanter deduced was a doctor, left to fetch it, then told them to bring the Mujar inside. They dragged Chanter into a cellar, his head bouncing on stone steps until he lost consciousness again.
After the street thugs left, Doctor Jashon Durb studied his acquisition with ill-disguised excitement, lighting another two lanterns. The Mujar lay still, his eyes closed. No breath stirred his chest, yet a pulse beat in his neck. His throat was cut from ear to ear, which explained his lack of respiration. From the odd angles of his limbs, the cutthroats had damaged him badly before they had brought him here. Still, it did not matter. No Mujar had been seen in a city for over twenty years, and he had always longed to dissect one. His fellow doctors, and the professors at the nearby medical college, would no doubt pay handsomely for the privilege of joining him in his study of Mujar anatomy, a mystery until now. He would consult with Tranton, the local expert on Mujar, for the best way to keep his subject under control while he carried out his experiments.
Although fairly sure that the Mujar was too badly injured to escape, and without water could not heal, Jashon dragged a heavy beam across the cellar and pinned him under it, just in case. Earthpower would keep his victim weak, and in the morning he would call Tranton. Satisfied, Jashon blew out the other two lamps and returned to bed, where his plump but comely wife waited.
Chanter woke in black stillness. A heavy weight lay across his hips, and agony coursed through him in endless waves. Dolana's creeping cold held him strongly, telling him that he was underground, and he wondered if he was in a Pit. He tried to call out to his brothers, but his jaw was broken and his throat slit, so his lips moved silently around the words. Surely they would know he was here? They would bring water for healing, if there was any.
Was the Pit dry? Would he lie in helpless agony for the next seventy-five years? The thought filled him with despair and a quiet rage that burnt beside the pain. If he was in a Pit, he was alone, for he sensed no other Mujar. He tried to sit up, but weakness held him down and his arms bent, broken above the elbows. The pain of his movements, though dulled by the cold of Dolana, brought a wave of sickness, and he slumped back. His only escape was sleep, and he consigned himself to it, grateful for the blessed unknowing of oblivion.
Talsy jerked awake with a gasp as a rat ran over her legs, and it scuttled away. The smell of sewage and putrefaction made her gag as she crawled from the shelter of the shanty in which she had spent the night. The chill morning air nipped her through her clothes, making her hug her fur jacket closer. Hunger clenched her gut, and the salt-stiffened lashes of her swollen eyes reminded her of the weeping that had lulled her into an uneasy sleep the night before.
The memory of Chanter's plight sent a pang through her, and she gazed up and down the filthy street, wondering which way to go. She had to find him. She could not abandon him now. Searching this filthy, squalid metropolis was a daunting task, but she would not shirk it. He had protected her, and she had promised rescue. The thought of the previous night's horrors brought fresh tears to sting her eyes, and she cursed, rubbing them as she headed down the alley.
Doctor Jashon Durb unlocked the door and hurried into the cellar at first light, eager to assure himself that the events of the previous night had not been a dream. The golden-skinned unman lay where he had left him, caked with dried blood. Jashon prodded him with his foot, but the Mujar's eyes remained closed. Satisfied that his victim was still helpless, Jashon left the cellar and donned his coat for the short walk to Tranton's house up the street. Ignoring the beggars who accosted him, he returned the greetings of merchants and housewives as he strode along the crowded, cobbled road. Houses loomed over it, washing strung across it from upper windows. Shops interspersed them, and their owners raised awnings and set out produce in anticipation of the day's trade.
Tranton's modest house leant drunkenly against its neighbour, one side undermined by wood borer. Once a wealthy man, the Mujar expert now eked out a meagre living from books and so-called Mujar charms; bits of black horse hair and dried digits supposedly cut from Mujar before they were sent to the Pit. The dried fingers and ears were Trueman, Jashon knew, and possessed none of the powers that Tranton claimed. Jashon's pounding on the bleached door evinced a response in the form of an angry shout from within.
The door squeaked open, and Tranton's scowling face thrust into the gap. "What the hell - Jashon!"
Jashon pushed past the elderly man, whose grey beard, stained yellow with spilt food, straggled across his chest like a malignant fungus. His greasy hair was pulled away from wrinkled features in a loose pony tail tied with a dirty leather thong. Jashon closed the door and faced his old friend, who stared at him in surprise. Tranton's astonishment turned to disbelieving delight when Jashon told him what he had in his cellar, and the Mujar expert insisted on inspecting the prize at once.
They hurried back to Jashon's house, where Tranton examined the captive with great excitement.
"By God, Jashon, I never expected to see one of these bastards again. They've become very rare. I heard of one that was thrown into a Pit about three years ago, and there are rumours of a few still bonded to hill tribes in the mountains. But it's been many years since one wandered out of the forests and entered a city. Whoever caught him certainly made sure he isn't going anywhere."
"I want to dissect him," Jashon stated. "But I heard that some doctors tried once and the Mujar escaped."
"They were idiots. They put him on a table, and of course he was then able to summon the Powers. They got a bit burnt, and the Mujar turned into a bird. This one is far too badly injured to do anything. Even if he could turn into a bird, he'd have broken wings."
Jashon nodded and prodded the Mujar with his boot. "I want to move him to the medical college. How can we do that?"
"Easy. Put him in a sack and drag him. So long as he's on the ground, the Earthpower will keep him weak and stop him from summoning fire. Not that it would do him any good now. Since these yellow bastards won't kill, all their powers don't do them much good." He laughed. "You know the old saying, 'harmless as a Mujar'."
Jashon shook his head. "I know that. I'm only worried about him escaping."
Tranton grunted. "He can't. Without healing, he's helpless in any form."
Jashon fetched an old potato sack from the pantry, which they pulled over the Mujar. They lifted the heavy beam off him and dragged him up the cellar steps. In the street, they received many curious stares, but Jashon was a well-respected doctor, and the sight of him dragging a corpse, though odd, did not arouse any suspicions. The guard patrol offered to help, and Jashon allowed them to haul the Mujar to the college. It stood in an ornamental garden with a fountain in front of the entrance, an imposing stone edifice with a steep slate roof and pale stone walls fortified with black beams.
The guardsmen dragged the Mujar through the entrance hall and down a flight of steps to dump him in the laboratory, where crowd of curious doctors and students gathering as the men left. Jashon revealed his prize with a flourish and basked in the excited hubbub that followed. Several apprentices were dispatched to summon elder professors, who soon arrived to join in the excitement in a subdued fashion. The prospect of experimenting on a Mujar brought even the dean from the seclusion of his book-lined study.
A burning pain in Chanter's belly woke him. Unlike the sharp stabs the thug's knives had inflicted, this was slow torture. He writhed, his abdominal muscles becoming rigid, and opened his eyes. He lay on the floor of a grey-walled room, black beams ran overhead and a variety of instruments cluttered the tables around him. Fresh blood oozed from a cut in his midriff and reddened the hands of the bearded butcher who bent over him, holding a knife. The doctor smiled, and impotent rage filled Chanter's heart. He glared at the ring of spectators, who wore avid expressions of excitement and curiosity. Earthpower froze him, dulling the pain as it drained his will and denied him Crayash. He struggled weakly, his broken limbs useless, and some of the Lowmen sniggered. One spat on the floor next to his head.
"Not feeling so good, Mujar?" the hatchet-faced torturer mocked him, grinning. "At last one of your kind does some good, satisfying our curiosity. You lot have never been any good for anything before. It makes a change, doesn't it?"
The Lowman's cruelty fanned the rage that had always smouldered in Chanter's heart, and it spilt out to burn his blood.
One of the younger men crowed, "I bet he wishes he could die now!"
Raucous laughter greeted this, and many adjoining insults were bandied about, causing more merriment.
The torturer bent to wield his knife again, slicing open Chanter's gut to pull it open. The doctors and students leant forward to peer into the incision, passing comments. Chanter's rage grew in proportion with his suffering. Dolana filled him, the only Power at his command, yet his weakness mocked him. Still, he summoned what little willpower he had left and wielded the Earthpower with a lash of his mind.
Icy silence clamped down as the air froze into momentary solidity, and the utter silence of deep within the Earth pounded at his ears. Chanter grimaced, struggling to control the icy Power as it slid through him, calling for change, longing for freedom. It writhed and slipped in his grasp, a snake of cold force too strong to control with his weakened will. The manifestation was long, dragged out by his inability to use the magic. The frigid hush vanished as he lost his grip on it, letting it sink back into his bones.
Several Lowmen gasped and staggered as the Power released them, the rest stood white lipped and hard eyed.
Tranton wheezed and waved his hands. "Don't worry, he's just trying to change, but he couldn't do it. Even if he had managed, he's still helpless."
Jashon turned to frown at his friend. "Except I don't want to dissect a dog or a donkey."
Tranton gestured at the Mujar. "He can't, he's too weak."
"Luckily."
A doctor tapped Tranton on the shoulder. "The last time someone tried to dissect one of these bastards -"
"I know," Tranton said. "But they put him on a table. This one's helpless, I assure you. And anyway, Mujar are harmless."
Jashon bent to widen his cut, pulling aside skin and muscle to reveal shining viscera. Doctors leant forward eagerly, but their comments were disappointed.
"Looks the same as a Trueman."
"Doesn't bleed very much though, does he?"
Jashon grunted. "That's because he's not Trueman."
A student laughed. "If he was Trueman, he'd be dead already."
"Obviously." A professor shot the boy a caustic glance.
The Mujar tried to raise his head, but flopped back. Jashon pulled coils of intestine from the incision and peered deeper into his bowels.
"He has a liver and kidneys, just like us, only they seem smaller," he commented. "No fat. No appendix."
Chanter concentrated on the Dolana again, his longing for release becoming immense as the doctor poked and prodded amongst his entrails. The Power twisted within him like a cold silver snake, lithe and sensuous, a sea of Dolana that filled him to the brim, its abundance defying him to wield it. Never had he struggled so hard to grasp it in its fullness. Even when the spear had pinned him to the icy hillside, his fate had been acceptable.
Blood pounded in his brain as he strained, and the frozen silence clamped down again, gripping the Lowmen in cold talons of stillness. This time, he strived to frighten his tormentors into releasing him. Change was beyond his strength, but the world that had birthed him knew the call of her son and shared his substance, for he was a part of her. The icy hush winked out, and the Lowmen sighed and chuckled. Chanter sensed the world's response to his need.
A low rumble started within the ground, like distant thunder, and swelled. Several Lowmen glanced around, frowning in puzzlement. The torturer paused to look at a grey-bearded reprobate, who smiled and shook his head. The rumble deepened and grew louder, and the ground shook. Lamp fittings rattled on the walls, items vibrated off tables and clattered or smashed on the floor. Chanter concentrated on his command, Dolana's talons shredding his will. Tables walked across the floor, propelled by the vibrations running through it. Dust fell from the rafters in a gentle rain, powdering the Lowmen doctors' greasy faces. Some cried out in alarm and tried to run, but tripped and fell on the shaking floor.
A red cloud filled Chanter's mind, and warnings prickled his consciousness. Danger. Screams came from the street. Horses neighed and dogs barked. The crash of breaking glass slashed his ears with slivers of sharp dissonance. His will bowed under the weight of the danger, the dread that he might kill. His grip on Dolana slipped, and he released it. The rumble died and the shaking stopped, then oblivion claimed him in consolation.
Jashon glared at Tranton. "That was him?"
Tranton nodded, his skin pale under its layer of dirty grease. "Trying to scare us, that's all."
Jashon looked down at the mutilated Mujar's peaceful features, then at his white-faced, diminished audience.
"Seems like he had some success." He addressed the doctors who were leaving the room. "What, do you think a Mujar can harm us?"
Most returned, shame-faced, to their positions, others left anyway. Jashon feigned utter calm as he continued to cut.