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,
