by Tom Lloyd
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.
‘He is no spirit,’ Mihn gently chided, realising she was on the point of fleeing, ‘just an injured man who needs my help remembering who he is.’
Chera shuddered and her mouth fell open as she began to cry. With a start Mihn realised she had wet herself in fear. ‘The ragged man’s king o’ the Finntrail,’ she sobbed, ‘and ’is soul got swept off by a storm — he can’t remember who he is so he has t’ steal the souls of others!’
Mihn blinked. He hadn’t expected his words to fuel her terror. ‘Chera — ’ he began, reaching out towards her.
The movement shattered the remains of her resolve and the girl fled, running hell-for-leather down the path away from him without a look back. Mihn watched her disappear into the woods until he couldn’t hear the sound of her feet any longer. He looked back at the lake. Isak hadn’t moved the whole time.
‘The ragged man, eh?’ he said wearily as he picked up the bundle of food. ‘And here I am: the Grave Thief. What a cheerful pair we make.’
CHAPTER 12
Major Amber looked up from his meal when a horn sounded in the distance: a single note that carried from the edge of the camp. It was all he needed to hear. With the help of crutches he got to his feet and made his way to the window.
‘What’s that about?’ Horsemistress Kirl asked through a mouthful of mutton. Food in the Fist was far better than what was being served to the troops outside.
‘Nothing to concern you,’ Amber said distantly.
After another week of daily ministrations from the mages of Larat and the Priest of Shotir, his injuries had healed enough for him to get up and move about without help, if not without pain. His entire body still hurt, and he’d not be fighting any time soon, but it was a blessing to be out of his bed again nonetheless.
Kirl shrugged and went back to her food. In the darkness outside there was little to see, but Amber remained looking out of the window. He could just about make out the shapes of soldiers moving on the ground below and after a minute he caught sight of the one he was looking for.
The road to the Fist was marked with torches, clear lines in the evening gloom that stood out amidst the campfires. A pair of horsemen approached through the bustle of an army yet to settle down to sleep. Amber couldn’t make out any detail, but guessed the smaller of the two would be Gaur’s man, Chade. Lord Larim had told them to expect the Poisonblade at nightfall. When the riders were a hundred paces from the main gate Amber turned and headed for the door, grabbing a large sheathed sword as he did so and swinging the baldric over his shoulder.
Kirl watched him struggle to open the door without letting either crutch or sword fall, but she did nothing, just helped herself to the food he’d left. Amber glanced back just before he closed the door as she scraped the last of his rice into her bowl. The horsemistress had surprised him by showing a greater piety than he’d expected from her. From his sick bed it had been hard to miss her quietly saying the morning devotionals, or the prayer to Grepel of the Hearths when she lit the fire. Though she’d never given the impression of being a great supporter of dogma, or the priesthood in general, Amber was keen to avoid her discovering anything about the meeting he was heading off to. She caught him looking and flashed a brief smile; the major felt himself colour and retreated.
He made his way to the apartments General Gaur had made his own. Gaur’s huntsmen stood guard rather than Menin soldiers, but they allowed him through with nothing more than a suspicious glance. They were an ugly lot, criminal-looking, but under the tattoos, ritual scarring and bone piercings, there were some educated minds as sharp as the long knives they carried.
Inside he was greeted by General Gaur, who relieved Amber of the sword and directed him to an armchair. Unusually, the beastman was out of uniform, dressed instead in a formal robe of red, edged in white fur and detailed with black insignias of the Menin and Chetse legions under his command. Amber looked at his own uniform and felt a flush of embarrassment when he realised how in need of cleaning it was. Convalescence and renown were making him forget the officers’ code.
‘How are you, major?’ Gaur asked abruptly.
‘Well enough, sir,’ Amber confirmed. ‘No strength for much more than walking from room to room yet, but at least I can do that. I’ve recovered some of my senses since I stopped taking the pain medicine.’
Gaur gave an approving nod. ‘Good. Lord Styrax wants you in Byora as soon as possible — we’re going to lift the restrictions on travel throughout the Circle City so you need to be in place there.’
‘Lifting restrictions so soon?’
‘Trade is the Circle City’s lifeblood; if that isn’t allowed to continue the resentment will only grow, and that’s no way to build an empire.’
Gaur settled himself into another armchair and turned to face Amber. He rested the sword in the crook of his arm. ‘Ismess has been shattered; that is nothing more than a minor problem. We occupy Akell to keep the Devoted on a short leash, and Fortinn is mainly at war with itself. Meanwhile, Byora’s ruler is caught up in something altogether more complicated; I know Lord Styrax has told you this, that we believe her to be under Azaer’s control. Azaer’s disciples will keep down any insurrection, so as long as normal life is allowed to continue, the entire Circle City will quickly come to accept its new circumstances.’
‘What resources will I have to monitor Duchess Escral and Byora?’ Amber asked.
‘Just a few troops, and some of my huntsmen — but there will be a standing garrison in Byora, of course, so that might as well be the Cheme Third until we march again. For the time being they will be kept close to the armoury and leave policing the city to the duchess’ troops - she’s not so foolish as to try anything, and a bit of normality will do the quarter good. You should set up operations away from your legion, remain on injury leave and relax a little. Have your men observe these “children” gathering outside the Ruby Tower in particular, but . . . Well, it is possible you will gather the best intelligence yourself. As yet we don’t know Azaer’s intention, and before we assume its plan is hostile to our own, we should allow its people the opportunity to approach us.’
‘And Zhia Vukotic?’
Gaur nodded. ‘Yes indeed. Lord Styrax believes she will want to clarify her position as far as we are concerned, so you should expect her too.’
The discussion was cut off by a sharp rap on the door and before waiting for invitation Chade had entered, ushering in a companion and closing the door swiftly behind them both before he’d even bowed to his lord. The other was tall
enough that he had to duck his head a little as he entered, but having done so he then stood motionless while Chade bustled around him.
The newcomer was almost entirely hidden under a long cloak; what part of his face not shadowed by the hood was covered by a dull green scarf. Over one shoulder was a thin, rectangular weapons-bag that reached almost to the ground. To Amber’s eyes he was oddly slim — most men of that height were white-eyes, and bulky with heavy muscle. Despite having the advantage of several inches’ height over Amber, the newcomer looked like he weighed several stone less.
After a long moment the newcomer pulled his scarf away from his face with deliberate slowness, then slipped back his hood. Amber blinked in surprise; there was nothing unusual about his face at all. It was unremarkably in every way; it was the face of a typical Menin.
