The Ragged Man

by Tom Lloyd

  The dog yawned wide, its tongue lolling, and thumped its tail against Isak’s thigh. It licked Mihn’s wrist and started to move towards the bowl, but Mihn moved it out of the puppy’s reach and opened Isak’s shirt to check on his injuries. He gently removed the witch’s poultices, wiped the skin clean and examined the scabs underneath. There was no sign of infection, and the deep cuts were closing nicely — though Mihn had expected Isak to heal unnaturally quickly, he was still a little surprised to see even the broken skull was knitting together well, and where the skin had been ripped away new tissue was growing.

  He shuddered. Even with that degree of healing, the injuries were so wide-ranging that from some angles it was almost impossible to recognise the youth he’d first met. The shape of Isak’s head had changed with those depressions; patches of scalp had been cut away, along with chunks of his ears. Half his teeth were missing, or had subsequently fallen out, and the line of his jaw indicated at least two breaks . . . the litany of damage continued all over his body and Mihn guessed it was only the hours they had spent escaping Ghenna that had allowed the healing to start before they reached the Land.

  The puppy gave an excited squeak and began stalking Isak’s bowl. Mihn sat back, to watch Isak and see whether he would notice or react. Isak remained staring into space, unfocused, but as the puppy wriggled its way towards the bowl he did at last move an arm to impede it.

  Mihn held his breath, hoping this was not coincidence. The puppy tried to squirm out from under Isak’s arm and he twisted his body a little — maybe not properly, as if he had noticed the prospective thief, but enough to shield his food.

  ‘Good,’ Mihn said lightly, ‘you are going to have to keep an eye on that dog, or he’ll snaffle every meal I make the moment your back is turned.’

  Isak didn’t respond, but Mihn hadn’t expected him to. His goal was to keep talking normally to Isak, waiting for the words to filter in and remind him of human interaction; he knew it would work eventually.

  ‘Come on, you,’ he said to the puppy, who gave an excited little bark. Mihn scooped up the dog up and set him on the ground. The bowl of scraps was devoured in half a minute and once it had finished Mihn played with the puppy, all the while keeping one eye on Isak.

  After a while Mihn noticed Isak beginning to move — he was feeling around himself on the bed. His eyes remained unfocused as he stared at the flames in the stove, but his hand was definitely moving with some purpose, albeit in an uncertain, jerky manner, as though he was searching for the puppy. Mihn was sure he had grown used to have it sleeping pressed up against his body; missing its presence was a good step forward . . .

  Eventually Isak’s searching fingers reached the soup and ended up planted firmly in the bowl. Mihn felt a flicker of disappointment. The soup wasn’t hot enough to scald, but it wasn’t the result he had hoped for. As he watched, Isak slowly withdrew his fingers and, oblivious to the soup dripping onto his blanket, held them up in front of his face, as though trying to work out what to do with them. Tentatively, he brought the fingers up to his mouth and pressed them to his lips.

  Mihn scarcely dared breathe as Isak licked the soup from his fingers. For the first time, his gaze left the flames and he looked at the bowl. He still looked glazed, but there were signs of effort in Isak’s face, a small spark of animation that gave Mihn heart.

  ‘That’s it, Isak, the bowl is just there if you want to eat,’ he called softly, rising and going to the bed. He gently guided Isak’s hand to the bowl and cupped his fingers around it before helping him to draw it towards his face. Isak was still lying on his side. When the edge of the wooden bowl bumped against his lips his tongue flicked out, as though expecting more soup.

  ‘Just lift yourself up and drink from the bowl,’ Mihn encouraged him.

  Whether or not Isak heard the words, he did start to move, turning his body until he was almost face-down in the bowl. He started lapping awkwardly at the soup like a dog.

  ‘Well, that is not ideal,’ Mihn continued brightly, ‘but however you want to start, my Lord. A week with a puppy has taught you something at least — and your table manners were never that impressive anyway.’

  Isak positioned his elbows more comfortably under his body and continued to lap at the soup, hands curled protectively around the bowl until it was all finished. Mihn replaced it with the one he had been about to eat himself, and that too was devoured.

  ‘That is more than you have eaten since’ — he hesitated for a moment — ‘since you came back. How about we try for the privy tonight as well? Wiping you down is not my favourite activity.’

  Isak was wearing only a long, open-fronted robe and a knotted piece of cloth that served as a nappy more than preserving his dignity. Mihn’s experience with babies was extremely limited, but he assumed they had no regard for when they messed themselves. Luckily, the lessons of childhood were still embedded somewhere in Isak’s mind, and he was exhibiting a little more control than a baby. Mihn had resorted to treating white-eye and dog alike: after eating, the two of them were taken outside. It had taken some persistence to get Isak standing up so Mihn could lead him outside, but the alternative was much less palatable to contemplate.

  This evening the lake was hushed and still, with few birds disturbing the silence. Mihn looked around as the puppy bounced forward, holding its nose high as it suddenly caught a scent. He felt a little disquieted; it was early for such quiet, but as he turned he caught sight of movement on the water’s surface.

  With Isak in tow he walked down to the water’s edge and peered through the faint moonlit mist. As his eyes adjusted he saw two specks of pale light drifting just above the still surface, and as he watched, one suddenly darted across the other, causing it to hop up in the air. Eventually he realised they were not specks of light, but white creatures catching the moonlight.

  ‘Moondancers,’ he whispered to Isak.

  The white-eye was standing very still and tense, looking out over the water with his arms wrapped about himself and his body stooped, as though he was cold — though his skin was hot to the touch, as though some part of him resided still in Ghenna and warmed him by it.

  Moondancers were not ghosts or spirits, but a rare bird that lived on water. Mihn had found a nest once; they were tiny little things with large webbed feet that allowed them to move across the water’s surface as they hunted insects. He smiled as he recalled how, in the daylight, they had been an unimpressive dull grey, but here in the moonlight their feathers caught the light, shimmering weirdly —

  Mihn’s moment of wonder was abruptly cut off as something black rose up from the surface and grabbed one of the moondancers, dragging it under the water with a loud splash. Mihn frowned. He hadn’t realised there was a pike in the lake, or any other sort of predator that would hunt like that. The remaining moondancer had already disappeared into the rushes and a heartbeat later the lake surface was once again as still as glass.

  As he scanned the water to see if there was any further sign of movement a low growl came from beside him — not the puppy, it was too deep. When he turned, Isak was still hunched over, with one arm pulled into his chest, but he had lowered his right arm and his hand was balled into a fist. A second splash came from the lake, and the moonlight caught a ring of ripples out on the water, a little closer this time.

  Isak gave another growl, his damaged throat giving it an unearthly quality, and Mihn jumped as a light suddenly shone from beside him: Eolis had appeared from thin air in Isak’s hand, as though they were still in Ghenna. The sword was shining alarmingly brightly in the moonlight, invitation as much as threat.

  Isak did not appear to have noticed its appearance, but he was more alert, poised as though expecting to be attacked. The puppy at his feet was silent, looking at the lake with an air of expectation.

  ‘Time to go back inside,’ Mihn said firmly. ‘Isak, back into the house.’ He tried to push the white-eye in the right direction, and after a few moments Isak allowed himself to be s
hoved back inside the house, the puppy close beside him. Mihn stood at the threshold and looked back at the lake. There were more ripples on the surface now, and they were barely ten yards from the shore. Quickly he kicked off his boots and shrugged off his coat before picking up the steel-shod staff beside the door. Thus armed he shut the door behind him and stood on one side, keeping in the shadows.

  Mihn watched as the ripples drifted closer. He checked the tattoos on his hands in the moonlight, to reassure himself the circles had not been broken by scratches, or anything else. When he turned his hands over the other way, the tips of the leaves tattooed from shoulder to wrist on each arm were revealed, hazel on the left and rowan on the right. A moment later and Mihn felt a slight change descend over him, a warmth that made him sigh with relief. The now-familiar sense of detachment from his surroundings was a welcome indication that the witch’s magic still worked. He just had to hope it would be enough to keep him hidden from whatever was stalking them.

  A dark shape — a long black head — broke the surface of the lake, followed by forelegs that delicately tested the mud back at the water’s edge. After a moment the creature heaved itself forward and Mihn saw a sinuous body with a flattened, abrupt muzzle and four powerful legs. The hind legs were significantly larger, and once the creature had left the water and was standing on firm ground Mihn saw its chin dipped so low it nearly brushed the ground. It moved like an animal hunting

  A second one broke the surface just behind it - and Mihn caught sight of something on its back. The creature had a whip-like tail curled forward like a scorpion’s but lying almost flat along its back. What chilled him more was the wet gleam of pitted iron chains running from the tail’s barb and all along its bony back to trail on the ground behind it.

  When it turned slightly and its legs caught the moonlight Mihn saw chains running down its legs to its claws. When the tail rose slightly, the chains clinked as they were lifted. The chains were part of its tail, Mihn realised, like a flail that could be whipped forward at its prey, and this was no natural creature, but a daemon rising from the Dark Place itself, dragging chains of sin after it.

  Enkin, Mihn realised with a start, and seeking a trail they cannot find. He remembered the stories about the Enkin, but even as a Harlequin he had never truly believed them.

  The hounds of Jaishen, they were called, daemons that had hunted Aryn Bwr, the last king of the Elves, for seven millennia, and brought horror in their wake. Many referred to Aryn Bwr as the Great Heretic because he had led the rebellion against the Gods and forged the weapons that had killed many of the Pantheon. No mortal’s damnation had been more assured despite the last king’s best efforts to be reborn in Isak’s mind. Now the last king’s soul had been sent to Ghenna, they were without purpose — but it appeared Mihn’s harrowing journey had brought at least a taste of Aryn Bwr back to the Land. The witches were sure Aryn Bwr’s soul had been torn from Isak as he fell to Ghenna, and Mihn could not doubt it — he would not have been left like forgotten scraps after a kill had the two not been separated completely.

  Mindless hunters without prey, he guessed, watching the first lift its body high and taste the air with its tongue. Unless that prey is Isak now? Do hounds care if they find a different prey to the one whose scent they hunt?

  The daemon turned its head towards the cottage and Mihn felt his hand tighten on his staff. His tattoos wouldn’t mask Isak’s scent on the ground, nor that of the puppy. It looked directly at him for a long while, then jerked around to the right, to the tree-line, upwind of them. As Mihn watched, the daemon and his hounds moved swiftly away.

  Mihn let out a sigh of relief. He’d found the bi-toed tracks of a gentry pack that way — daemons or no, they wouldn’t enjoy it if they did track down a score or more of the fierce forest spirits.

  As though to confirm his notion, when the Enkin disappeared into the trees Mihn heard a warning hiss, the sound clear and unmistakable in the silent night air, first from the trees where they were heading, then closer to Mihn. Then an inhuman chatter came from deeper in the woods. He scanned the shadows but he could not see the gentry anywhere; they were perfectly hidden, and not about to reveal their location yet.

  The Enkin shuffled through the undergrowth, pausing at every warning hiss, but continuing until they had reached the tree-line — when the whole gentry pack began growling, sounding far more threatening now. Mihn tried to follow the sounds, but they came from different directions and he guessed the full pack was there, two dozen males and females, each stronger by far than a human.

  Whether they could count or not, the Enkin appeared to come to the conclusion that they were outnumbered. Mihn glimpsed the angled body of one turn and head out back towards the lake, but now they moved so quietly that once the bushes again concealed them only the warning growls of the gentry moving further away told Mihn they were leaving the area.

  It took almost a quarter of an hour before there was quiet again, long enough for him to feel the chill settling in his bones. He headed back inside at last, intending to bar the door as soon as he was in, but he stopped short at the sight of Isak, sitting on the edge of his bed. His long legs were stretched out and Eolis rested across his knees. The right knee had been the last of his injuries to heal. Considering the damage, Mihn was expecting Isak to walk with a limp. In spite of the remarkable healing that had taken place, ridges of scarring had changed the shape of the knee entirely.

  Mihn stared at the silver sword a while, musing on how it had just appeared from nowhere — from Ghenna. He knew Eolis was bound to Isak’s soul even more than the gifts of the Chosen normally were, but the last time he saw it Xeliath had been attacking the Jailor of the Dark with it. Though it was not now needed, the weapon showed no sign of disappearing again. It looked as real, as solid as anything else in the room, however out of place it might be.

  Isak suddenly looked up at Mihn, his face so mournful and anguished that Mihn felt the guilt strike him like a kick to the chest.

  ‘It hurts,’ the white-eye whispered in a hoarse voice.

  Mihn was too stunned to speak for a moment. ‘What hurts?’ he said eventually.

  ‘Everything,’ Isak replied. ‘The echo is everywhere.’

  Mihn opened his mouth to reply, but Isak turned away and lay down on his bed, Eolis still clutched in his hand. The puppy trotted over, unconcerned, and clambered up too, settling himself on Isak’s feet.

  Oh Gods, Mihn thought with a heavy heart, does he remember the pain of the Dark Place? How could any man live with that echo in his bones?

  Mihn slept badly and woke with the dawn. From the taut stillness of Isak’s body he guessed the white-eye was also awake, but he still faced the wall, and he did not respond when addressed. Mihn left him alone and wrapped himself in his heavy coat to attend the stove. The sky was overcast and a cold, whipping wind stung his cheeks, but as he watched the puppy bound out to the shore, nose pressed against the ground, Mihn feel the gladness of life again.

  He left the dog to his explorations and used the outhouse, then went to check his rabbit snares in the trees. He hadn’t caught anything — something had knocked the snare aside without being snagged — so he reset it and returned to drop a line in the lake.

  When he reached the cottage he found Isak standing at the water’s edge, his robe fluttering in the wind. Without speaking, Mihn went to stand by his side. For a long while they stood and stared down at the rippling water. Despite his desperate desire to hear Isak speak again, Mihn knew the man couldn’t be rushed: his mind might not have been broken in Ghenna, but that didn’t mean Isak was quite the same man as the one Lord Styrax had killed.

  ‘How long?’ Isak said at last in a croaking voice.

  ‘For me or you?’

  There was no reply. Mihn continued to watch the steady movement of the water at his feet. The wind was blowing from behind them, and it carried the whisper of leaves.

  ‘Am I alive?’

  ‘Yes, Isak,’ Mihn said firmly,
‘you are.’

  ‘I don’t feel alive.’

  Mihn turned and saw puzzlement and pain on Isak’s face, the sort of disbelief Mihn had seen on the faces of the mortally wounded as they stared at the haft of the spear or blade that had killed them.

  ‘It will take time, that much is certain,’ he said softly. ‘Do not expect too much of yourself. What you have experienced would have broken a lesser man.’

  ‘I am not broken?’ Isak replied in a whisper that struck at Mihn’s heart, but before he could respond there was a gasp from behind them.

  Mihn turned quickly, stepping in front of Isak protectively until he saw Chera, a girl who lived in the nearest village, standing by the tree-line. She had several times brought supplies from the witch, though she had never entered the cottage. Now she stared aghast at the two of them, not noticing when Mihn waved her forward.

  Pulling his coat tight around his body, Mihn hurried over. Chera had barely twelve summers, but she was a sensible girl, and the witch had entrusted her with a number of tasks. Though she had been wary of the newcomer in their midst, she had never looked terrified, as she did now, staring at Isak.

  ‘Chera, what is wrong?’

  ‘It’s the ragged man,’ she whispered, eyes wide with fear. ‘Don’t you see ’im?’

  ‘Of course I see him; he is a friend of mine.’

  As soon as he said that Chera dropped her bundle and began to back away. ‘Friend?’ she gasped. ‘The ragged man’s a stealer o’ souls!’

  Mihn shook his head. Llehden had its own folklore; the region was one well-known for its particular spirits and ghouls. The stories weren’t entertainment to the locals but rules to live by, otherwise their babies would be stolen by the Coldhand folk, and travellers snared by the gifts of the Finntrail or hunted down by Eyeless Sarr.