The Ragged Man

by Tom Lloyd

  The sensations mingled and added to the mess of confusion in his dreams, and everything was dominated by Zhia’s darkly glittering sapphire eyes. The questions continued, voices speaking at once: Mihn’s soft lilt, King Emin’s crisp, aristocratic tone, and they were all asking about those sapphire eyes.

  Can she be trusted? Where do her allegiances lie? Will she take sides?

  He couldn’t answer any of them. In his dreams his tongue swelled, making speech impossible, but even if he had been able to speak, there was nothing he could say, no assurances he could give.

  An unexpected chill shivered down Doranei’s spine and he jolted awake, heart hammering and dread slithering across his skin. The room was dark, and as he sat up his head cracked against the underside of the dining table under which he’d been sleeping. A deep thump reverberated around the room as Doranei fell back onto his bedroll, gasping.

  ‘Told you,’ whispered someone nearby.

  It took Doranei a few moments to focus as he winced and rubbed his stinging head. When the stars cleared he saw Veil, watching him owlishly from the other side of the table.

  ‘Told me what?’

  Veil grinned. ‘That you wake up sudden-like sometimes, so maybe under a table ain’t the best place to sleep.’

  Doranei looked around at the rest of the dining room: a long, ancient hall - older even than the keep - that had been incorporated into the newest wing of Moorview Castle. Apart from the huge, empty fireplace there was precious little space not occupied by dozing King’s Men. He opened his mouth to reply, but hesitated, remembering the strange sensation that had woken him.

  ‘Thought I heard something,’ he said at last.

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ Veil said. ‘You’d have a sword in hand if you did. You dreamed you did, or some girl with sapphire eyes just reached out and touched you.’

  Doranei frowned and tried to order his thoughts. He didn’t remember dreaming of anything that would wake him so abruptly. Zhia’s touch was accompanied by a memory of her perfume; this was neither, it was something unfamiliar.

  ‘Think I’ll go get some air,’ he muttered.

  Veil watched without comment as Doranei picked up his sword; unnatural happenings and strange sensations were familiar to the Brotherhood, as were overactive imaginations in the dark of night. However, the need for caution was ever-present, and confusion hadn’t overridden Doranei’s natural mistrust.

  Doranei slipped out of the darkened hall and found himself in a moonlit corridor. He didn’t know what bell it was, but the stillness indicated the depths of night. He looked around and as he shivered involuntarily, his hand closed around the sword grip . . . but nothing happened, so, feeling foolish, he released it again and buckled the scabbard properly to his waist.

  He still felt better when he was holding the sword. King Emin’s belief that Lord Styrax would not use subterfuge to win this battle was small comfort in the dark hours of the night.

  Magic had always been feared by the common folk; its use in battle was accepted, but few generals made their name off it. Styrax might have the advantage there, with his awesome powers, but his plans extended further than mere victory. Intelligence reports were coming in all the time: four Menin armies of ten to fifteen thousand men were destroying great swathes of the Narkang nation as three of them made their way towards Moorview Castle. Each army comprised soldiers from all his conquered cities, most particularly the remnants of the Chetse élite known as the Ten Thousand.

  Part of the reason for bringing them here was to keep the vanquished troops under control - if they were ravaging King Emin’s lands, they would not be fomenting rebellion in their homeland. But that was not the whole of it: Lord Styrax had amassed a larger host than ever before for a more fundamental reason. Forty thousand or more men were marching on Moorview to take part in the battle he wanted every bard to sing of for centuries to come.

  Somewhere up ahead Doranei heard the scuff of a shoe on the flagstone floor. He started to draw his sword - and stopped, struck by the sight of the black blade in the darkness. The provenance of the sword he’d taken from Aracnan’s corpse was unknown, but it was certainly old and powerful. In daylight it prickled faintly with tiny sparks of light. Now it was more like the night sky on a clear night, casting a very faint light of its own. He sheathed it again, suppressing his fascination for the time being. When he reached the corner of the corridor he stopped and peered around it. He saw no one, but whispering voices were coming from somewhere at the far end.

  This was the opulent part of the castle, away from the servant’s quarters, and there were long, narrow rugs running down the centre of the corridors. A wide variety of paintings, both portraits and landscapes, were displayed on the walls, and ahead of him Doranei could see a large map of the whole area covering one wall. It had been painted by Countess Derenin, the lady of the house, and was accurate enough that the king had consulted it often in the past few days. The local suzerain’s family was an ancient one which had managed to adapt and thrive under King Emin’s rule, unlike many who didn’t understand the art of compromise and had been eclipsed by the king’s ambitious supporters.

  Doranei walked silently on the rug until he was almost at the end. There he stopped, feeling horribly exposed, as another deep voice joined in. He heard the words clearly, though there was a thick stone wall between them; the voice echoed in Doranei’s head without hindrance or distortion, though it was quiet and sounded strangely far away. It made his teeth ache, and as he winced at the sensation his bruised head increased its throbbing, sending flashes of pain down across his eyes.

  ‘You ask me to put myself in the power of others.’

  Doranei covered his ears, but it made no difference — the voice was not loud, only penetrating, and his hands felt as insubstantial as the walls. He could hear nothing but the words - no cadence or accent to place the speaker.

  ‘What did you think would happen?’

  He recognised that voice; it was Lord Isak, more focused than he had been earlier that day. Whoever - whatever, Doranei realised - Isak was talking to, they had made him forget his pain, for a little while at least.

  ‘It cannot be permitted.’

  ‘It must,’ whispered a third person - Mihn - urgently, ‘there is no other way.’

  ‘Find another.’

  ‘No,’ said Isak. ‘You cannot command me; that much I know.’

  The white-eye sounded strange to Doranei and after a moment he realised it was the lack of antagonism in his voice. The spark of aggression, that fire within all white-eyes, had been extinguished within him.

  ‘You invite catastrophe — you do not understand the forces you play with.’

  Isak laughed, although it was more a strangled wheeze. ‘I have nothing but the scars of understanding. I was born to command, born to change.’

  ‘This will be done,’ Mihn added, ‘and you must play your part.’

  There was a long period of silence, and Doranei waited with his fists clenched tight in anticipation of the echoing voice in his head.

  At last, ‘What of the Ralebrat? They will not heed my call.’

  ‘They will heed ours,’ Isak said.

  ‘They are not to be trusted.’

  ‘The service I ask is great. They must be rewarded for their losses. The price is forgiveness, long overdue absolution.’

  The voice became no louder, but Doranei felt it press all the harder on his eardrums, an intensity born of outrage. ‘You presume too much.’

  ‘As is my lot,’ Isak said, the weight of the Land in his voice. ‘This Land shall be made anew, the cruelties of the past left behind.’

  Doranei crept closer. Now he could see the door at the end of the corridor was ajar, a faint blue light spilling around its edges and outlining a dark figure. Though he was unable to make out any detail, Doranei still felt terrified, and the air grew thick and heavy around him.

  ‘Some crimes haunt you still,’ the figure said with cold derision.


  Its face was hidden, but Doranei felt the force of its presence like the looming bulk of Blackfang, and for a moment he was sure the figure’s words were directed at him, rather than Isak.

  ‘There is a scent of vampire about these halls. Are you so sure of those around you?’ the figure asked, and Doranei flinched, an icy ball of dread filling his stomach.

  He backed off down the corridor and wasted no time in fleeing silently to the furthest corner of the castle, the panicked thump of his heart pounding in his ears.

  Knight-Cardinal Certinse looked up from the pile of papers on his desk. The night was well advanced and his head was pounding. The hot summer’s day had left his study stuffy and malodorous; the bunches of fragrant lavender and pepper grass hung over the door and windows had done more to add to the heavy atmosphere than relieve it.

  His eyes drifted to the door that led to his bedroom; the thought of sleep was enticing, especially compared with tallies of import taxes. Certinse stood, reaching for the candlestick on his desk, but he was stopped by a muffled commotion from somewhere downstairs.

  ‘What now?’ he wearily asked the empty room. ‘I’m too tired for another late-night chat with High Priest Garash.’

  Abruptly the door opened and Captain Perforren entered, a worried expression on his face. ‘My apologies, Knight-Cardinal, but a visitor has just arrived.’

  ‘A visitor? There are still Menin soldiers outside the house, aren’t there?’

  ‘And men of the Devout Congress inside the door,’ his aide added. ‘They, ah, they didn’t manage to stop your visitor. I think he has them confused.’

  ‘Explain quickly,’ Certinse said, hearing boots on the stair.

  ‘He arrived with one of the Jesters! The soldiers don’t know what to do; he’s a Demi-God, after all.’

  Certinse managed a smile at last. ‘That’ll confuse the bastards sure enough. Is the visitor Luerce?’

  ‘Nope,’ said a deep voice from the corridor, ‘no one so special.’ A tall man entered. A white patchwork cloak didn’t do much to disguise his powerful frame. He wore a sword at his hip and held a dagger in his left hand. Certinse blinked a moment before recognising the man, Duchess Escral’s bodyguard, Kayel.

  ‘A little late for a social call, isn’t it, Sergeant Kayel?’

  Kayel raised his right hand, in which was a glass bottle of brandy. ‘Never too late for a drink between friends.’

  Certinse regarded him for a moment, his face blank, before gesturing for Perforren to leave. ‘Your young prince is still looking to be friends then?’

  Kayel watched Perforren shut the door behind himself before heading for the glasses on a side-table. He poured a large measure of brandy into each wide-bottomed glass and handed one to the Knight-Cardinal.

  He raised his glass in a toast. ‘Ruhen stands for peace in this Land,’ Kayel said gravely. ‘Friends is all he’s looking for.’

  ‘Tell that to the priests plaguing me,’ Certinse muttered, showing the sergeant to one of the chairs at the far side of the room, set on either side of the empty fireplace. ‘I’m amazed some of those fools preaching in Akell got out again without being lynched. Ruhen may have his admirers here, but they’re keeping their heads down.’

  ‘Who can blame ’em? It’s better than getting ’em chopped off.’ Ilumene took a big gulp of brandy. ‘Speakin’ of your priests, I thought I’d come see how that situation was workin’ out.’

  Certinse gave him a sour look. ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’

  ‘You see me laughin’? It’s my concern when Ruhen’s Children ain’t allowed to spread their beliefs, when they get strung up for the heresy of criticisin’ priests. An’ I b’lieve it’s your concern that you, as Knight-Cardinal, ain’t in command of your own Order — that you got to answer to a crowd o’ fanatics who’ve forced their way into power.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you’re saying here,’ Certinse said cautiously. ‘Are you asking whether I’m plotting against fellow members of the Knights of the Temples?’

  Kayel laughed. ‘No! I’m sayin’ in your place, I’d likely gettin’ ready to murder the whole damn lot of ’em! And, I’m askin’ why you ain’t done so already - they’ve robbed you o’ your Order, and if you don’t take it back soon, it’s gone for good.’

  The sergeant knocked back the last of his brandy and rose to fetch the bottle. As he turned his back, Certinse inspected the man. His high boots looked scuffed and dirty, dull black rather than polished to a shine, but they looked well-cared-for; Kayel was a man used to walking, he surmised; he obviously knew the value of good boots. He didn’t recognise the style of the lines of black stitching, but he did recognise the concealed pommel of a dagger when he saw it.

  ‘The Menin Army’s been gone a while now,’ Kayel said as he offered Certinse more, ‘long enough that the war’s likely to be done soon. Whichever way it goes, the Land’s goin’ to be a different place after.’

  ‘Undeniably,’ Certinse agreed, ‘but I can’t be sure there will be an Order of the Knights of the Temples left to see this new Land.’

  ‘So why ain’t you moved? You’ve hardly made much effort to help out Ruhen’s Children, and you know we’re happy for you to exploit us that way - don’t hurt our cause a shred.’

  ‘Unfortunately the matter is not so simple,’ Certinse said. ‘My Order is by definition composed of the pious. Our rank and file are all volunteers, and most joined for higher reasons than the stipend.’

  ‘So they’ll take their whippings like dogs?’ Kayel asked, momentarily surprised, ‘they’ll cower and whine, all the while shrinking from a raised hand? And never once thinking to bite back?’

  ‘The analogy is accurate,’ Certinse agreed. ‘They’re an army, and properly trained. I have been paying careful attention, as you might imagine, but there are simply not enough men willing to consider insurrection against a body of priests.’

  ‘But no one’s likely to complain if it’s done for them?’

  The Knight-Cardinal smiled. Interesting, he thought suddenly, the man’s accent has softened now we’re at the meat of the conversation. He’s not playing the big simple soldier any more.

  There was something more, something else at the back of his mind trying to grab his attention. Ah yes, he speaks Farlan well, very well. That’s not the casual familiarity of a mercenary. Certinse had spent more years than he cared to remember in exile, living under King Emin’s rule after Lord Bahl’s ban on the Knights of the Temples. Over that time he’d noticed a number of common errors in the way people there spoke the Farlan dialect; some were glaring, some subtle enough for most native speakers to not pick up on immediately. Sergeant Kayel had made none of those mistakes, none at all.

  ‘Obviously I couldn’t condone any such actions,’ he said carefully, mindful of being lured into speaking too openly, ‘and on a purely logistical note I would point out that only the Menin have the capability to do such a thing. A covert mission of the scale required would be near-impossible.’

  Kayel didn’t blink. ‘It so happens,’ he said cagily, ‘that there might be some new arrivals in the Circle City very soon. The call of Ruhen’s message has reached further than many might believe, and a few remarkable followers have been attracted to him.’

  ‘Such as the Jesters?’

  Kayel shook his head. ‘Their losses were considerable in the battle against the Farlan; only half a dozen acolytes remain.’

  ‘I’m intrigued,’ Certinse said, guessing he was going to be told no more. ‘If they are so remarkable it’s a shame I remain under house arrest, unable to receive visitors without the escort of Demi-Gods. ’

  ‘A shame indeed. If anything were to happen, however, you would have to step in quickly - no sense giving the opportunists a chance, is there? A symbolic figure would be useful in that instance, I think you’ll find; remind the Order of its founding principles.’ Kayel gave him a sly look and set aside his glass. As he was making ready to leave he added, ‘My view is it’d be sen
sible to prepare against all eventualities. Either King Emin wins this war and the Circle City’s in need of a leader again, or Lord Styrax wins, and he’ll be looking for a permanent ruler for each region of his empire. If that happens, I’m sure he’d be glad of strong allies before he heads towards Tirah - especially if one has connections in those parts already.’

  Certinse smiled. ‘My first obligation must certainly be the stability of the Order, yes - my scholarship has perhaps been neglected in recent years, but it’s never too late to refresh one’s memory of the Order’s founding principles. This current fervour could be far better employed in the pursuit of the Order’s greater purpose, I suspect - and never let it be said I am closed to new ideas. Your little prince’s message, for example; even an old soldier such as I could be swayed. The Land will soon be tired of war - if it could be ended swiftly the Gods themselves would surely thank us.’

  For a moment Doranei forgot himself and stopped, staring in wonder: far away over the moor a flock of birds were diving and wheeling in a great cloud against the sky, while closer at hand, swifts darted and swooped, feasting on the insects stirred up by the activity on the moor. He could hear the beating of thousands of wings in unison.

  ‘Not a sight you ever get bored of, eh?’ Veil commented from his right.

  Doranei nodded dumbly as the flocks swept over a slight rise on the moor and flattened into a swirling cable of birds that arched up into the sky. Further east, orange-edge striations of cloud lay above the horizon and he felt a slight shadow fall over them as the flock veered past.

  ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’ snapped the man standing between them. His left arm was resting lightly on Doranei’s shoulder.

  ‘What? Hah! No - not a joke,’ Veil said, a brief grin flashing across his face.

  The third man in their group was a mage from Narkang called Tasseran Holtai, who was generally acknowledged to be the finest scryer in the kingdom. Unfortunately, his years of service had come at a price: he had been completely blind for almost a decade.