Sara Douglass – The Axis Trilogy 3 – StarMan

“The Plough will enable you to till the earth,” He had explained, “to tame and civilise the earth and thus yourselves. Uncultivated is uncivilised, barren is dangerous, forested is evil. Plough, and you shall reap the rewards.”

And so they had. Over many centuries the Acharite civilisation had sprouted and flourished in the wake of the Plough, and the Acharites had seen how the Plough gave them comfort and security. Gradually they’d nibbled at the edges of the forest, taking a tree here and a glade there, and the friction that would later grow into war developed apace between the peoples of the Wing and the Horn and those of the Plough.

Artor had also chosen Smyrton as the place where he made the gift of the Book of Field and Furrow to mankind. And though later generations had forgotten the pivotal role that Smyrton had played in the ascendancy of the Way of the Plough, the site itself still remembered. Now that Artor walked again, Smyrton had reawoken out of its long slumber. And the villagers had changed.

They had heard of the events to the south, and they had watched as flight after flight of the feathered evil had flown overhead. They had witnessed the rebirth of Tencendor, and had bewailed the fact that most of the Acharites had apparently accepted this as easily as they had discarded the Seneschal and the Way of the Plough.

“It is a test,” Goodman Hordley, senior man of the village, had told his brethren. “Artor tests us to see how true we are.”

And the villagers agreed with him. The troubles had started with the vile murder of Plough-Keeper Hagen by his dark daughter, Azhure. None had ever liked her, nor her mother, and none were surprised that she had been capable of such an act.

From that murder their problems had escalated. The Forbidden pair had escaped, and the BattleAxe – cursed be his treacherous name! – had not been able (or had not wanted) to recapture them. Battles to the north, west and south over the next two years against the invasion of the Forbidden Ones had not resulted in victory for the Seneschal, only disaster.

These days the villagers had grown used to dark news.

But they had also grown used to other things. Lacking a Plough-Keeper since Hagen’s death, they had nonetheless gathered each seventh-day in the Worship Hall to honour Artor as best they could. They had sat there quietly, softly mumbling to themselves those words of the Service of the Plough that they could remember, making the sign of the Plough at every opportunity, taking what comfort they could from the icon of Artor that hung over the Altar of the Plough.

But then, five months ago, the icon had begun to talk to them. At first individuals thought they were hallucinating, and did not discuss what they had heard. But then they recognised the fanaticism that glowed in the eyes of every other villager as a reflection of what broiled in their own souls, and people talked, shared…planned.

Planned for the bitch they knew was coming from the south.

Planting trees.

Spreading shadows and evil.

Burying the straight and narrow furrows beneath the twisted roots of her forests.

Infecting all who came close.

Lately, Artor had spoken to them in their dreams as well, and for the past four nights everyone in the village had spent their sleeping hours thrashing restlessly as He had shown them explicitly what threatened; they had dreamed of walks through dark woods where eyes glimmered at them from the unknown and where an old witch clad in a blood-red cloak chased them with spells.

And a woman had also wandered the paths, carrying, two-by-two, the dark seedlings of destruction in her hands.

And so Artor had whispered to them.

Her. Destroy her. Destroy her and we can begin the arduous task of returning this land to its purity. It will take a long time, but her destruction will be the start of the unravelling of all the evil that has infected this wondrous land.

And they listened and believed and planned.

They knew she was coming. For days they had watched the dark line of the forest slither closer across the southern plains. Now they waited for her, and their eyes were almost as maddened as those of the monstrous red bulls who drew Artor’s Plough.

Their thoughts were even worse.

“Smyrton must make way for Minstrelsea,” Faraday sighed. She straightened her back. “Well, we shall have to go in. Barsarbe, perhaps it would be best if you and the others took Shra around the village. There’s no need for you to -”

“No,” Barsarbe said, and by her side Shra glared at Faraday, daring her to contradict. “Shra and I, and our companions, will come with you. Either we all go, or none of us do.”

Faraday nodded, glad of their support, although she worried for Shra. These villagers had already seized and abused the girl – what if they did so again? Would Axis miraculously appear a second time to save her from death?

Slowly she walked forward, feeling the unnatural coldness of the village with each step closer.

Nothing stirred as they approached. Even the crops in the fields refused to sway to the gentle breeze, and shadows hung thick and heavy over the village, although the sky was clear of clouds this fine spring day.

Faraday could feel the humming of Minstrelsea, driving her on, begging her to complete their union and transformation.

How could she fail them?

Behind her walked the Avar and the Goodwife, all calm, all with heads high and eyes shining proudly. In the blue cart the seedlings trembled, desperate to sink their roots into the soil, yet afraid of the soil awaiting them.

In front waited Smyrton.

The streets were deserted as they walked past the first houses. No people, no livestock. The garden plots were bare of flowers or vegetables, but the dark soil lay turned over in neat furrows. Waiting.

Doors were closed, windows tightly shuttered. Silence hung over everything, hiding the village’s intentions.

Faraday felt sick. She tried to summon the power of the Mother, but it was tarnished by whatever lurked here, and it sickened and failed even as Faraday touched it. She swallowed. How would she be able to defend herself, defend the forest, without the power of the Mother?

Artor. If Faraday could not touch the power of the Mother then she was sure she could feel him. His was not an unknown presence to her, for Faraday had spent the first eighteen years of her life an ardent believer in the Way of the Plough. But that had been before she gazed into the Star Gate and before the

Mother’s arms welcomed her, and she never, never, remembered the sickening, cloying presence she could feel now.

“Watch the shadows,” the Goodwife muttered, and Faraday faltered slightly. Watch the shadows? Watch the shadows? And what was she going to do when Artor poured forth from the shadows?

Azhuref her mind screamed, where are you?

A man stepped from behind the corner of a house and stood silent, grey, watching the small procession.

Faraday hesitated, wondering if she should call out to him, but his eyes were flat and hostile, and she knew he would not respond. It took all her courage just to keep on walking.

A woman appeared, from where Faraday could not see, holding the hand of a seven-year-old child, and their eyes were as bleak as those of the man’s. They stood silently, watching them pass.

And then another stepped forth, and another, until the main street was lined by silent, grey adults and children, unmoving, unmovable.

Faraday and her companions kept walking, and behind them stepped the donkeys, jumping nervously at the hatred in the eyes of the grey people to their flanks.

As they passed, the silent people moved in behind them, following them, blocking their escape.

Faraday kept walking, although she could feel the villagers beginning to mass behind her.

How had Azhure managed to live here so long?

In the village square a small knot of people stood before her. Four men and two women, all grey and silent, madness and devotion lurking about the corners of their eyes.

Faraday stopped several paces from them. “My name is Faraday,” she said. “And I have come to plant.”

“Witch,” whispered one of the men.

“Whore,” spat one of the women, her eyes sliding down Faraday’s body.

“She is Faraday,” said the Goodwife pleasantly, standing a pace behind Faraday’s right shoulder, “and she is an Earl’s daughter, and a widowed Queen, and beloved of gods and men alike. And she has a task to complete.”

Goodman Hordley looked at the peasant woman. “You have been misled, Goodwife,” he whispered, infused with Artor’s power. “Return to the truth and the Way, and Artor will forgive you.”

The Goodwife laughed merrily, and her laughter gave Faraday heart. “Return to Artor?” she said. “I have returned, but it is not to Artor. Can you not feel the presence of the Mother, Goodman?”