Through a sea of darkness, I expected to swim to the afterlife. But I didn’t.
Faith was a cultural phenomenon, dictated by locality. I believed that my spirit would journey on to Aktuaht, where the three judges from the ancient Order of Glass and Words – Truth, Mercy and Wrath – would decide whether or not I had been a good man. Was I worthy of spending an eternity in the Garden in the Sky, or did I deserve the condemnation of Nothing? I expected to face judgement because I came from Old Castle, a city, and that was what we believed; but out on the wasteland, Aktuaht and the afterlife were interpreted differently.
All we had learned about the clansfolk came from the prisoners the Scientists had captured for interrogation and experimentation over the generations. It was said that experiments on their biologies and hardy immune systems had helped us to develop the medicines that protected us from the toxic environment of the wasteland. Interrogations had led to a greater understanding of how the clansfolk lived and expanded and migrated, how their cultures worked, and how their beliefs differed from ours.
They believed in the Salahbeem, just as we did. They took the Magicians’ view of them: the Gardeners were gods beyond a doubt, and they controlled the other side. But mythologies and stories differed. According to the clansfolk, there had never been a time in the depths of history when we had cohabited. The divide had always existed between us. They had been the Salahbeem’s most loyal servants, and it was we, the people of the cities, who drove their gods away.
Ether was supposed to be a gift for all, magical and giving, but the greedy city-dwellers stole it from the Gardeners and used it to bring them to their knees in great wars; and when the Scientists rose from the ashes of those wars, they continued using ether to oppress the clans of the wastes, to crush their lingering loyalties to the Salahbeem. Which I didn’t suppose was too far from the truth. Ether-growths were the deciding factor in who controlled Urdezha. We had them; they didn’t. However, the wastelanders didn’t believe that the Salahbeem had fled our world. The Scientists and the city-dwellers only forced them to retreat, to go into hiding underground in a secret realm called Aktuaht, where they waited for the day when they were strong enough to return and take Urdezha back by force.
Aktuaht for the clans was a fort, bigger than a thousand cities combined, buried far beneath the world’s scorched surface and filled with untold numbers of grand halls. It was where the spirits of fallen warriors celebrated with a final banquet before moving on to the Gardeners’ paradise on the other side. But not for the strongest of them; not for those deemed the mightiest of warriors.
The clansfolk dared not speak the names of the Judges of Aktuaht, but it was they who selected the most fearsome among the clans to remain after death; the chosen few who, over decades, centuries, millennia, would fill the halls of Aktuaht until they could be filled no more. And when that happened, the Day of Resurrection would come, and the dead would rise to reclaim Urdezha by scouring the cities from its face with an army of monumental size.
That was what the clansfolk believed.
I had never met a soldier who had received orders to capture a wastelander alive for interrogation. Perhaps it was just a very rare occurrence, or maybe the Scientists no longer had need to study them. Had we learned all there was to learn about our enemy? One thing was for sure, the clansfolk were as merciless as us, and if they ever took prisoners, it was only for nefarious reasons. Which raised a fearful question in me: why the fuck was I still alive?
I only had strength enough to open my eyelids a crack. Firelight danced in my vision. I could see nothing beyond it, but the pain in my body confirmed that I hadn’t arrived in Aktuaht. I was lying on my back, hard rock beneath me. The pain was constant, threatening to spill over into agony at any moment. I thought better of attempting movement. The reek of blood and burned flesh was strong. Mine? There was another smell, dank, wild, animal, and it told me that I wasn’t alone.
I should have been dead.
A rustling, swishing sound – like hands rubbing together. Someone sniffed and then spoke.
‘Just let him die.’ A clansman, growling Salabese in a deep voice.
‘No.’ The clanswoman who replied spoke in a tone only a shade higher. ‘Old Kurlo wants him kept alive, so that’s what I’m doing.’
Old Kurlo? The grizzled chieftain with the ether-cannon?
‘Then lie, Yorla!’ the clansman almost pleaded. ‘Tell Kurlo you did your best, but he died anyway.’ He made an angry noise. ‘Feed him to the bears with the rest of his platoon, that’s what I say.’
The clanswoman – Yorla – sighed, and I heard the sound of something being submerged in water. This didn’t feel real. Was I really there? I half-expected Danii to weigh in with some inappropriate comment. But no; Danii was dead. They were all dead. Fed to bears, the clansman claimed …
Yorla said, ‘Emul, I don’t much like it either, but you nagging my ear isn’t helpful.’ The clansman began to object but she jumped in. ‘Go and wait outside if you can’t stop your lips flapping.’
He growled unhappily. ‘Kurlo wants him guarded at all times.’
Yorla snorted. ‘You think I can’t handle this little one on my own? His wound will have him screaming if he tries to move. Go away, Emul. I’ll call if I need your help.’
A moment passed and I heard him leaving.
The sound of water came again, as though squeezed from a cloth. Fuck me, I was thirsty! The clanswoman’s shadow fell across me and I closed the cracks in my eyelids, fearful of what she might do should she realise that I was awake. I needn’t have bothered. When she applied the wet cloth to my wounds, I was pretty sure that I managed a scream of agony before I passed out.