The Thin Executioner

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The slow, steady march continued over the next few weeks, the same pattern as the first day — prayers to begin with, a meager meal at the end of each day, and more prayers when they camped.

After a couple of days, some of the Um Biyara asked Qasr Bint why the slaves were not punishing themselves. He said it was because they weren’t converts. The Um Biyara asked if it was wise to let an unclean pair march freely with them. Qasr Bint slept on the matter and was struck by inspiration during the night.

“Although you do not see the need to suffer,” he told Jebel and Tel Hesani the next morning, “we see the need within you, and we must help you find the path to redemption.”

Since then Jebel and Tel Hesani had been whipped, struck, and kicked every day. The Um Biyara ripped out chunks of their hair, prodded them with pins, and ran flames over their skin. One night, as he and Tel Hesani squatted at the rear of the praying group, Jebel studied his array of bruises, burns, and cuts, and sighed. “You must love this,” he said bitterly, rubbing spit into a deep burn to try and soothe the pain. Angry tears glittered in his eyes.

“How so?” Tel Hesani frowned.

“The slaver has become a slave. I bet it fills you with delight.”

Tel Hesani sighed. “You have learned so little about me. I could never enjoy seeing another person enslaved. I wouldn’t wish this fate on anyone, not even Bush and Blair, although if anyone has ever deserved slavery, it’s that pair.”

“But surely you want your enemies to pay the way you’ve paid,” said Jebel.

Tel Hesani shook his head. “Slavery is wrong. While there’s even one slave on Makhras, the world is a lesser place.”

Jebel’s face crinkled. “But after all these years of captivity… your family held too… suffering at the hands of cruel masters… you must hate. You must want revenge.”

“No,” Tel Hesani said firmly. “The Um Aineh are committing a terrible crime, and they will live to regret it one day. You can’t hate those who are harming themselves. Instead you pity them and try to help them if you can.”

“You’re a fool,” Jebel sneered, the way he had been brought up to as a loyal Um Aineh. But secretly he envied the slave, and although he would have denied it if accused, part of him wished he could have been raised to see this as a world where kindness towards your enemies was a sign of nobility, and not, as he had been taught to believe, a mark of weakness that merited punishment by the gods.

Qasr Bint spent an hour or two most days preaching to Jebel and Tel Hesani, filling them with the doctrines of his religion, urging them to pledge themselves to the Um Biyara. Tel Hesani argued with him sometimes, but there was a vein in Qasr Bint’s forehead that throbbed when he was angry. Tel Hesani kept a close watch on that vein and quickly went mute whenever he saw it pulse.

The Um Kheshabah had discussed escape with Jebel, but the world was covered with a white crust in which their footprints would be visible if they ran. The winds of a storm might mask their escape, but the storms hadn’t returned yet. Also the Um Biyara were paying close attention to them. Tel Hesani had edged towards the perimeter of camp a few times when nobody seemed to be looking. Each time an Um Biyara popped up out of nowhere, guarding against any possibility of escape.

Tel Hesani thought their best chance might come when the Um Biyara stopped at a town or village to convert the locals. He hoped that he and Jebel could slip away while their captors were busy saving spirits. But the Um Biyara never stopped except to replenish their supplies. Tel Hesani decided to ask Qasr Bint where the converts were going to come from.

“The lands west of the as-Sudat,” Qasr Bint replied. “There are many factions in Abu Saga. We have won the support of high lords in the southeast, but they fear a backlash if we operate too close to home.

“So we go to the scattered settlements of the west. Most mines lie south or north of the great mountain, Amud. But there’s an area around it that has either been mined dry or isn’t worth excavating. In a few isolated pockets, outcasts have settled. Those are the sinners we will target. If we prove ourselves in the wilds, we can then focus on the homesteads closer to Disi.”

“Then this is a trial run?” Tel Hesani asked.

“Of a sort,” agreed Qasr Bint.

“How do you plan to convert?” asked Jebel.

Qasr Bint smirked. “You’ll find out soon, my son. We’ll cross the as-Sudat in a few days. After that it’s a short march to the first village. All that I’ll say is that it will be memorable.” He winked monstrously. “Most memorable indeed.”

They crossed the as-Sudat four days later, over the fabled Erq Assi Jeh rock bridge. There were several natural rock bridges stretching high above the roaring torrent of the river, but most were impassable, thin, and narrow. The Erq Assi Jeh was an exception, the width of six men and thick enough to support many more.

Crossing the Erq Assi Jeh was supposed to bring a person good luck, and many Um Saga came here on pilgrimage, but rarely at this time of year. As Jebel crossed, he found himself thinking that he and Tel Hesani would need more than luck if they were to escape the clutches of the Um Biyara.

He paused midway across the bridge to glance over the side. They were high above the river. If he fell, he’d surely die. That wouldn’t be such a bad way to go. One brief fall, a hard crash, the escape of a quick death…

“Be careful,” Tel Hesani said, taking hold of Jebel’s arm. “The wind is strong.”

“I was thinking…” Jebel whispered, staring at the river.

“I know,” Tel Hesani sighed. “I was contemplating it too.”

Jebel’s gaze snapped around. “You?” he gasped.

“Doubt finds its way into all men’s hearts,” Tel Hesani said sadly.

“It would be swift and painless,” Jebel said, looking at the river again.

“But final,” Tel Hesani murmured. “We must stay alive and hope.”

“That’s what I told myself when I was robbing graves,” Jebel said hollowly. “The belief that I might be able to escape and complete my quest kept me going. Now I’m not sure. Maybe…”

Jebel stared hard at the roaring water. Tel Hesani said nothing. He couldn’t save the boy if he chose to jump, so he waited for Jebel to make his decision.

Jebel looked up, and his expression cleared. “No,” he said. “This isn’t my time.”

“Nor mine,” Tel Hesani smiled, then guided Jebel back to the center of the bridge, where they rejoined the procession of Um Biyara on their way west.

Heavy snow hit the day after they crossed the bridge, forcing them to a halt. The snow fell for three days, causing the Um Biyara to wonder if this was a sign from the gods that they should turn back. Worried about the success of their mission, they huddled together and prayed for guidance. They were led in prayer by Qasr Bint, who had abandoned his tent to be with his people in their chilly hour of need.

It would have been a good time for the pair of slaves to flee, but the storm was too fierce. If they left the camp now, they’d die of cold within hours.

On the fourth day, with no sign that the storm would break, Qasr Bint gambled. He issued an open challenge to the Biyara gods — stop the snow within the next six hours, or the group would retreat. For five hours it looked as if his gamble would backfire, as the snow was driven on harder than ever by savage winds. But then, unbelievably, the wind dropped. By the sixth hour it was clear enough for them to break camp and march.

“Do you think there’s something to this Biyara business after all?” Jebel asked nervously as the Um Biyara sang songs in praise of their great leader.

“No,” Tel Hesani grunted. “I think Qasr Bint is simply a good judge of the weather. I saw him outside his tent this morning, squinting at the sky, testing the wind. Many a would-be prophet has prospered by predicting the ways of the elements.”

Finally the Um Biyara came to the first of the villages where they hoped to make converts. It was a tiny settlement in the foothills of the al-Tawla. The massive Amud was close but hidden from view by lowlying clouds.

The villagers were a thin, scraggy, sullen-looking lot. Their stores had been raided by wolves the week before, and they’d lost much of their winter stock. They were afraid they wouldn’t survive until spring. They gruffly told the Um Biyara not to pitch their tents, to move on fast.

Qasr Bint merely smiled and extended his arms. “We come to lessen your woes, not to add to them,” he said. “Though we have little food, we ask for none of yours and will even share what we have with you—if you’ll listen to us.”

The villagers were impressed by Qasr Bint’s offer of food and hastily changed tack and invited him into their village to discuss matters metaphysical. When Qasr Bint returned, he was beaming. He told his followers to divide their food in three and send one-third to the starving villagers. A second third would be gifted to them later if they converted. The Um Biyara would have to live off what was left.

Nobody complained about the rationing. They were ecstatic to be on the verge of a successful conversion. For two days the Um Biyara mixed with the villagers, telling them of the wonders awaiting purged sinners when they died. The villagers weren’t keen on self-punishment — life was difficult enough — but Qasr Bint said they wouldn’t have to torment themselves as much as the missionaries did.

“We must be exceptionally pure,” he said, “but you do not need to be so hard on yourselves. The occasional whipping… thorns under your fingernails… an odd burn or two… That is all we ask of you.”

The villagers didn’t have much to look forward to. Practically all of them had been forced for varying reasons to leave their homes, to scrape a living in the lawless wilds. The promise of a better life when they died, in the company of the privileged rich, proved attractive. The clincher came when Qasr Bint told them of all the others who would be converting to the cause.

“There will soon be a network of Um Biyara homesteads in this region,” he vowed. “They will share with one another, send food and help where it’s required. You won’t be alone. You’ll have companions and friends to rely upon.”

In the belief that their lives were to improve markedly, the villagers converted. There was a shaving ceremony, where all were scraped bare, and much singing and feasting — the villagers were free with their food now, since they assumed there would be more pouring into their storehouses shortly.

Tel Hesani could see what would actually come to pass. The villagers had been won over with promises that couldn’t be kept. No new friends would come. In a few weeks they’d run out of food. Starving and weak from flogging themselves, it wasn’t likely that they’d make it through the winter blizzards. He felt sorry for the gullible unfortunates, but there was nothing he could do except offer up a prayer for their doomed spirits.

The next day, after a good night’s sleep, the Um Biyara broke camp and waved farewell to the new converts. Two of the missionaries stayed behind to ensure the villagers didn’t stray from the true path. If he was a betting man, Tel Hesani would have gambled heavily on both being ripped to pieces before the end of the winter, when the villagers realized they’d been sold a dream that was, in reality, a nightmare.

“I guess that wasn’t so bad,” Jebel said as they worked their way northwest. “I expected the Um Biyara to go at them much harder than that, with whips and hot irons. All they did was preach and make wild promises. The villagers didn’t have to convert. They’ve only themselves to blame if it goes wrong.”

“Yes,” Tel Hesani snorted. “But they were broken long before we came. They were desperate and didn’t take much persuading. I doubt things will go so smoothly when we run into a group less eager to convert.”

“You think there will be bloodshed?” Jebel asked.

“No.” Tel Hesani made a grim choking noise. “I think there will be horror.”