The Master

by Louise Cooper

  Cyllan’s skin crawled uneasily and she said, ‘Latest news … ?’

  Gordach smiled proudly. ‘It was brought in by courier only an hour before we left on our patrol, lady. We must be one of the first towns, beyond the Province capitals, to have word of it.’ He paused for emphasis, then leaned towards her and whispered confidentially, ‘News from the Star Peninsula!’

  Cyllan’s fingers tightened on the gelding’s reins and she buried her hands in the animal’s mane lest Gordach should see them shaking. Trying to keep her voice even, she said, ‘I’ve heard nothing of it.’

  ‘No - if truth be told, none of us knows the details as yet. The courier arrived exhausted, and his message won’t be broadcast till morning. But I believe,’ Gordach smiled at her again, clearly hoping to impress her, ‘that it concerns a dangerous killer who has escaped the Circle’s custody together with his accomplice!’

  So the hunt was up … Cyllan licked lips that were suddenly dry, and Gordach talked happily on.

  ‘We’ll learn the details at dawn, and hopefully we’ll have a description of the two. I’ve heard that the news was brought from West High Land by messenger bird - if that’s true, then it’s a wonderful innovation, for the message must have reached our Margrave in hours rather than days.’ He shifted eagerly in his saddle, gripping the sword across his lap, ‘I hope the wanted man comes to Chaun Province - we’d earn a great accolade if we could be the ones to apprehend him!’

  Cyllan didn’t reply, and the man who walked at her horse’s head looked back over his shoulder.

  ‘Hush your noise, Gordach. The lady’s in no mood for your babbling-begging your pardon, madam, but if he’s not told, the boy will rattle on until his tongue drops out!’

  Cyllan nodded, but still didn’t trust herself to speak.

  Gordach fell silent, and when she looked up again she saw that they were nearing the town. The hunched silhouettes of buildings showed against the sky ahead, one with a soft halo of light glowing from a window despite the late hour. As they approached, an unseen watcher issued a sharp challenge out of the darkness and Lesk answered gruffly. Halting Cyllan’s horse he hurried forward alone, and she heard a brief exchange of words as her presence was explained before Lesk came back and led the horse on. A man muffled in a heavy cloak touched a finger to his brow politely as they passed, and they rode on into the town.

  Though not large by inland standards, Wathryn was clearly a prosperous and busy place. Acres of forest had been cut down as what had begun as a simple timbermen’s settlement grew, and Wathryn now boasted several merchants’ houses of impressive size, a justice house where courts were held and local business conducted, and a paved market square. Now though, all was quiet, although Cyllan could hear the sound of a millrace somewhere near by where a small river had been tamed.

  ‘Almost there now, lady,’ Gordach told her, undaunted by Lesk’s disapproving scowl. The horses’

  hoofs echoed loudly as they reached the market square, and now Cyllan could see a long, low building fronting the square, with a stylised painting of a spreading oak tree adorning its facade. A single light glowed in a downstairs window, and Lesk stepped up to the door, hammering on it with a heavy fist.

  ‘Sheniya! Sheniya Win Mar! It’s Lesk Barith - I’ve a guest in need of your hospitality!’

  A minute later the door creaked open, and a plump middle-aged woman peered out, her eyes widening when she saw Cyllan and her escort.

  ‘Aeoris preserve us, what’s this at such an hour? Lesk Barith, have you lost your wits?’

  Lesk explained briefly, while Cyllan sat mute on her gelding trying to quell a rising sense of dread that threatened to suffocate her. The news of her escape was abroad, and there was a price on her head - by morning, the townsfolk would be able to match her face and all too distinctive hair to the description of the hunted murderess. She desperately wanted to flee, turn her horse about and run while she still could; but both she and the animal were exhausted - to flee would damn her immediately, and she couldn’t hope to outrun a pursuit.

  She had at least a few hours’ grace - better to keep up her pretence and wait for an opportunity to leave unnoticed … if the opportunity was to be found.

  Sheniya Win Mar had by now heard the bare bones of Cyllan’s story, and her natural instinct took over from indignation at the disturbance. She soundly berated Lesk for keeping the lady waiting while he prated, then as soon as the girl was helped down from her mount she bustled forward.

  ‘There now, madam, we’ll soon have you warmed and comfortable! What you must have suffered; it doesn’t bear thinking about - but you’re safe now. Come; come in, and let me find you the best chair … ‘

  Cyllan heard the clatter of the gelding’s hoofs as Lesk took it away. She resisted the impulse to look back longingly over her shoulder and, taking a deep and nervous breath, allowed the tavern-keeper to lead her inside.

  Chapter 2

  The hawk was hardly more than a speck against the uneasy sky, a tiny shape arrowing its way eastward on the prevailing wind. It was unlikely that any casual observer on the ground would even have noticed it, but the man who sat in the lee of a rocky outcrop on the slopes of the hills bordering Han and Empty Provinces had seen the bird appear over the horizon, and now watched its rapid progress with narrowed green eyes.

  Why the hawk should have aroused both his interest and a measure of disquiet Tarod couldn’t tell; but there was something purposeful about its flight, as though it travelled on some mission above and beyond the call of instinct. And the fact that it had come out of the North-West - the direction of the Star Peninsula - could well be significant.

  The bird was all but lost to sight now and he shifted his position, stretching one leg to ease a touch of cramp and leaning back against the outcrop. The morning was chill, but as yet he was in no mood to resume his own journey; he’d walked nearly all night and, as well as being physically fatigued, he needed time to consider his next move.

  Tarod had departed the Star Peninsula in a spectacular manner that he had no anxiety to experience again.

  Before he left, he had sworn to Keridil that he had no quarrel with the Circle; but he believed the High Initiate would take no heed of his word. Keridil wanted revenge for those who had died - and he also wanted the Chaos stone. That gem lay at the hub of this whole ugly affair, and Tarod had to force back the chilly mingling of longing and loathing that always assailed him when he thought of it. Much as he might prefer to deny the fact, he needed the stone - it was a vital and integral part of him, for it was the vessel for his own soul. And without it he could only ever hope to be half alive.

  But the stone was a curse as well as a lifeline, for it shackled him to an inner self whose essence originated in pure evil - and therein lay the dilemma which had haunted Tarod since he had first discovered the gem’s nature. Yandros, Lord of Chaos, had awoken in him memories of a past so ancient that it almost defied imagination, and he couldn’t deny that that past had a terrible lure. Yet to acknowledge the stone’s true power and realise his full potential would be to turn his back on all that he had ever held sacrosanct. He had been a high Adept of the Circle, a chosen servant of the gods of Order - Chaos was anathema to him. And yet he owed his existence to those same malign powers …

  It was a paradox he couldn’t resolve, and now it was further complicated by the knowledge that he also owed his life to Yandros. Had it not been for the Chaos lord’s intercession through Cyllan, he would have been consigned to the grisly death ordained by Keridil, and the stone would have fallen into the Circle’s hands. That wouldn’t accord with Yandros’s scheme - Tarod was well aware that the malevolent lord still meant to use him as a vehicle for his plans to challenge the rule of Aeoris and the gods of Order, and Yandros believed that, at the final test, the ancient affinities would defeat any barriers Tarod tried to set against them.

  He shivered inwardly at that thought, for he knew that with the stone in his possession again it would be all too ea
sy to succumb to its pervasive influence. And though he wanted to survive, the thought of surviving as a pawn in Yandros’s deadly game turned his blood cold.

  Yet he dared not leave matters unresolved, and in the wake of his flight from the Star Peninsula he had realised that there was only one course of action open to him.

  When the stone’s nature had first been revealed to him - and it seemed a long time ago now - he had pledged to take the jewel to the White Isle far in the South, and to give it into the safe keeping of the one entity powerful enough to combat Yandros’s power … Aeoris himself. The conflict with the Circle, and all that followed, had made him doubt the wisdom of that decision, but now he saw no other way open to him. He had served Aeoris faithfully, whatever Keridil might say to the contrary - only the White Lord himself could finally resolve his terrible dilemma and relieve him of the stone’s burden.

  But to reach the White Isle would be a fruitless achievement unless he could find Cyllan …

  Tarod’s eyes narrowed with a sudden, sharp pain.

  He’d been trying not to think of Cyllan, aware that in spite of what his instincts told him he had no evidence that she was still alive. When the Margrave’s horse had bolted into the maelstrom of the Warp with her on its back, his wild despair had found an outlet in rage. But now that his mind had had time to calm and reason, he realised that if Yandros had manipulated events in his own favour once, he could do so again - and Cyllan’s well-being was very much in the Chaos Lord’s interest.

  Intuition told him that Cyllan lived; and he believed that, if she could keep her freedom, she would travel South to ShuNhadek, knowing that he too would be making it his goal.

  But there would be dangers on the road, not least from the Circle themselves. There must be a price on Cyllan’s head as well as on his own, and Keridil would stint nothing in the search for them both. Cyllan had the Chaos stone but it was of little value to her, while he, without it, was seriously hampered. He had used all the power he could muster to escape from the Star Peninsula, and the exertion of energy had been almost too much for him - he had had to trust to his ancient affinity with the Chaotic origins of the Warp and let it carry him where it would, and while he had survived the experience it had utterly drained him. The Circle might expect him to use his sorcery to discover Cyllan’s whereabouts and to transport himself instantly to her side; Tarod knew that without the soulstone his powers weren’t up to such a feat. He was little better off than a high-ranking Initiate, and would need all his physical resources to compensate for the loss of his sorcerous potential if he was to find Cyllan before the Circle did.

  He smiled wryly to himself, aware that as yet he’d made a poor show of attending to his own physical needs. He’d had no rest since his spectacular departure from the Castle, and carried no food or water, nor any coin to buy them with. Although some game inhabited these sere hills and he was a passing fair shot with a crossbow, he couldn’t conjure a crossbow from thin air.

  His only resources were the clothes he stood up in, an Initiate’s gold badge, and whatever small measure of power might be left to him.

  He shifted his position again and gazed up at the sky.

  Behind a pall of restless cloud the Sun was marching towards the low meridian of a northern Spring. The wind was beginning to bluster as it backed to a more northerly direction, and on the horizon, where the hills rose higher and more barren towards the gloomy mineral mines of Empty Province, the cloudbank was stained an ugly purple, presaging rain. He judged that it would be several hours before the first squall reached him, and in the meantime the change in the wind meant that his rock alcove was better sheltered. He’d be well advised to rest before continuing his journey; he was close to exhaustion, and sleep was more imperative now than sustenance. Besides, these bleak hills with their old, deserted roads were a safer resting place than any he’d be likely to be find once he reached the more populous farmlands.

  The rock made a hard and uncomfortable bed, but Tarod settled himself as best he could, wrapping his heavy cloak more tightly round his body. The wind, gusting, moaned like a faraway voice from a half-forgotten dream in his mind, and within minutes he was asleep.

  Instinct roused him seconds before the sounds of hoofs and heavy breathing impinged on the wind’s lonely mourning. His green eyes snapped open - and he found himself staring at a monstrous silhouette that blocked out half the restless sky. A strong, animal smell assaulted his nostrils and he tensed with shock, not knowing whether the apparition was mortal or something out of a chasm of nightmare.

  A throaty laugh grated and the monstrosity moved, splitting apart to resolve itself into the shapes of two mounted - and indisputably mortal - men.

  The sleeper wakes.’ The accent was guttural, and Tarod suspected that it had its origins in the far North of Empty Province. He didn’t like its overtones. ‘Welcome back to the world, friend. And isn’t it an honour to have such good companions to greet you?’

  Behind Tarod someone sniggered, and he turned his head quickly to see three more horsemen behind him.

  The one who had laughed was a pockmarked, vacuous-faced youth of 16 or 17; the others older men but no more savoury, and Tarod realised that they were - could only be - a band of brigands.

  He sighed and leaned his head back against the rock, closing his eyes once more. He had nothing about him worth looting, so it was likely as not that these evil-looking ruffians wouldn’t give him much trouble; but their unwonted arrival was an irritation.

  The leader, a snake-thin individual festooned with a bizarre assortment of stolen trinkets over a filthy fur coat, sniffed loudly. ‘Our friend doesn’t seem to appreciate our generosity in stopping to pass the time of day with him.’ He inched his horse forward and prodded at Tarod with the toe of one boot. Tarod opened his eyes.

  ‘On your feet, friend.’

  Tarod stared at him. ‘Are you addressing me?’

  The youth sniggered again and the leader made a mock bow. ‘Your pardon, sir, if I gave offence! But I see no one else to address.’

  The other men laughed uproariously and their leader grinned at the approbation. His horse inched closer still and the others followed his example, so that Tarod was tightly encircled.

  ‘Maybe he’s got a legion of demons hidden in his pocket, Ravakin,’ one suggested. ‘Maybe that’s who he thought you were talking to!’

  Ravakin smirked, showing a mouthful of decayed teeth. ‘Maybe he’s got a horse and bags stowed up his sleeve, more like it. Maybe he’d like to show ‘em to us, as a token of comradeship and goodwill.’ For the second time a toe prodded Tarod in the ribs. ‘Come on, friend.

  Where are your belongings?’

  Evenly, Tarod said, ‘You see them with your own eyes, friend.’

  ‘The traveller has a sense of humour.’ Ravakin leered.

  A heavy-set man beside him chuckled. ‘D’you think he’ll be as entertaining with a fire lit under him?’

  ‘He’ll be a damned sight more talkative. No man in his right mind walks these hills if he wants to stay alive - he’s got a mount somewhere. And he’ll tell us where it is.’ He licked his lips. ‘By the time we’ve entertained him a while, he’ll be begging to tell us.’

  He obviously intended the words to sap Tarod’s confidence, and was chagrined when the black-haired man only smiled faintly. Frowning, he gestured to the burliest of his companions. ‘Search him. See what he’s got about him.’

  ‘Don’t trouble yourself.’ Tarod rose with a swift, lithe movement that startled them. He threw his cloak back and his voice was deceptively gentle. ‘I have no coin, no possessions, nothing that would interest you, gentlemen. If you wish to search for a horse, do so with my blessing. You won’t find one, for I don’t own one.’

  The youth piped up in a voice that was only half broken. ‘He might be speaking the truth, Ravakin.

  We’ve seen nothing, and you couldn’t hide a worm in these barrens -

  ‘Shut your clatter!’ Ravakin snapped vicio
usly. ‘He hasn’t walked without horse or provisions into the middle of nowhere! Amit, Yil - we’ll give our friend here a little lesson in neighbourliness to loosen his tongue.’ As he spoke he urged his horse forward so that its flank, brushing by, knocked Tarod off balance. At the same moment two of the others closed their mounts in, spinning him back towards Ravakin, their hoofs kicking up the dust in a choking cloud.

  ‘Hold, Rav!’ The sudden exclamation brought the brigand leader up short. ‘What’s that under his cloak?’

  ‘What?’ Ravakin’s sly, acquisitive eyes focused on Tarod, but Amit, who had spoken, recognised the distinctive symbol before his leader did.

  ‘Damn us all, Rav, he’s an Initiate!’

  ‘Initiate?’ The leader gave him a scorching look. ‘He could be Margrave of the Seven Hells for all I care!’ He leaned forward in the saddle, and hot breath laced with the odours of stale food fanned Tarod’s face. ‘Maybe that’s what we’ll dub him. Our exalted friend, Margrave of the Seven Hells. Come on, Margrave. You’re going to dance for us till we tire of you, and then we’ll see about relieving you of that pretty trinket if you’ve nothing better to offer!’