2: Servants of the Crossed Arrows by Ginn Hale Page A

creature.”
    “Dirty.”
    “Sinful.”
    “Filthy.”
    “Piece of shit.”
    Fikiri collapsed to his knees, weeping and begging Parfir to forgive him, to spare him.
    The voices swept over them, seeming to rise from the sky and stones. John narrowed his eyes. Sky and stones didn’t speak Basawar or any other language. These were human voices, men’s voices. The air shivered with the sensation of hidden spaces opening and slipping closed. It had to be the Payshmura priests.
    “Fikiri.” John crouched down beside the boy.
    “I’ll kill you,” a voice whispered.
    “Tear you to pieces,” another hissed.
    “Burn you alive.”
    Their words were like a swarm of insects slashing through the air. John could almost feel their words   brush across his face. He could smell their breath.
    “It’s a trick, Fikiri. They’re testing you,” John told him.
    Fikiri sobbed. “I don’t want to die! Please! I don’t want to die!”
    “You won’t.” John placed his hands over Fikiri’s ears.
    “Go back.”
    “Give up.”
    “Turn aside.”
    John kept his hands pressed over Fikiri’s ears and slowly Fikiri began to calm down. He looked up at John and then glanced from side to side as if he expected to be able to see if the disembodied voices were still there.
    “Are they gone?” Fikiri asked.
    John shook his head and slowly peeled one of his hands back.
    “You will suffer.”
    “Burn.”
    “Bleed.”
    “Scream for mercy.”
    Fikiri’s lips trembled.
    “If it was Parfir,” John said firmly, “could my hands keep his voice from reaching you?”
    “Are they devils?” Fikiri whimpered.
    “No.” John found that he was almost shouting now.
    “Run from me!”
    “I am death.”
    “I am ruin.”
    “It’s just a trick that the priests are playing to test you,” John shouted over the threats and insults. “You must not listen to them.”
    “I will devour your flesh.”
    “Rot your bones.”
    “Eat your soul.”
    “I’m scared.” Fikiri was trembling. “I don’t want to die.”
    “You aren’t going to die! Just look at me, Fikiri.” John forced Fikiri to lift his head. “Just look at me and repeat what I say.”
    Tears dribbled down Fikiri’s face but he didn’t look away.
    John shouted out the words of the prayers. And slowly Fikiri began to repeat them.
    “Parfir,” John led Fikiri as Pivan had led him, “the earth is your flesh, the rivers your blood, the skies your breath. Parfir, the earth is your flesh, the rivers your blood, the skies your breath. I honor you. I honor you. I honor you...”
    Slowly Fikiri’s eyes drooped, his mouth relaxed, so that he was only whispering. He slumped into John’s chest, still muttering the prayer.
    John continued chanting. He carefully lifted Fikiri onto his back and then pushed himself up to his feet.
    Angry, resistant pain shot through his muscles. For a moment John’s legs trembled as if they might buckle. He stumbled, caught himself, and continued grinding the words of the prayers out. Slowly, he struggled up the steps. The hissed insults and whispered threats washed over him.
    John ignored everything but the prayers and the steps. The weight, the cold, the pain—he refused to feel them. Staring down, he took gray step after gray step.
    Gray step after gray step.
    They seemed to go on endlessly beneath him.
    And then there were only cobblestones beneath his feet. John lifted his head. A white stone wall rose up in front of him. It glowed a pale yellow in the early afternoon light. Only a few feet ahead of him, the last step stood before a broad iron door in the wall. The step gleamed brightly and as John drew closer he realized that it was made of gold.
    John lowered Fikiri to his feet. The boy moaned and called sleepily for his mother.
    “Wake up.” John could hardly get a sound out, his throat was so raw.
    Fikiri opened his eyes. He looked like the nap had done him good.
    He said, “The voices are gone.”
    John nodded and pointed to the tall