by Tom Lloyd
‘Still I feel them waiting,’ Mihn said sadly.
‘Well, don’t worry, you’re not dying, not until I let you,’ Isak declared. ‘Any soul doesn’t like it, they can face me. The daemon that owned your death is gone, and I own your life. My death meant a breaking of the prophecies that had me snared, and all that was tied to me, my title included – but you told me yourself: you don’t get off that easy.’
‘“The ties that bind”,’ Mihn whispered to the night, ‘“are cut by Death’s pale hand. The ties that make us whole He does not sever.”’
‘Exactly; Eolis remained part of me, just as you are while you still live.’ He put a hand on Mihn’s shoulder. ‘Come on, we both need sleep.’ He gave a click of the tongue and in seconds Hulf was bounding from the dark edge of the village and running silently to his side. He followed Mihn inside. The scarred white-eye lingered a moment longer and looked around the empty village as a cool breath of breeze brushed his cheek.
‘I am no longer afraid of shadows,’ he whispered to the dark. ‘You hear me, shadow? Your turn to be afraid.’
A ghost of laughter danced out from the moon-shade of an old yew. Beside it the village’s shrine to Nyphal, God of Travellers, looked grainy and insubstantial, and no match for the darkness.
‘No longer afraid? Oh my brave, foolish boy. You are enough to make a father proud, and who made you more than I? How you escaped Ghenna I do not know, but I am glad my plaything did not fall so meekly. What use will I put you to now? A daemon perhaps, risen from the Dark Place, against which I can rally the armies of the Devoted? A fool even, serving me without realising? Do you remember the words you spoke once to Morghien? “Life is for the living”, you said. Will you recall them at the end, I wonder?’
CHAPTER 12
Against a background of deep pink curls of cloud, knife-winged birds danced and swooped on their evening hunt. Larim watched their silent flight with rapt fascination, arrested by their swift, sharp turns and rapacious dives. The birds were as fast as any hawk he’d seen, moving with more haste than any fleeing insect could possibly require.
It’s what they are, he realised with a smile. They are born to fly at such speeds; they revel in their nature.
te‘Few appreciate such a quality in a white-eye,’ he muttered just as Govin, his acolyte, appeared around the edge of the abandoned farmhouse.
‘My Lord?’ Govin inquired, hearing Larim’s voice, but the expression on the white-eye’s face made him drop the matter immediately. Govin was a man who looked in a permanent state of worry. He was only thirty summers at most but he was already balding, with just a few strands of hair dragged across his oversized head, and he had the air of a man beaten down by life. His rather feeble body and prominent ears prone to turn pink at a moment’s notice were coupled with no surfeit of intellect, giving him the charisma of something normally found under a rock.
‘The village?’
‘Ah, not the sleepy hamlet you hoped,’ Govin said quickly. ‘A company of soldiers are camped on the common ground there, and sentries are posted on the road.’
‘What sort of soldiers?’ Larim asked wearily. If you hadn’t been the only one of my coterie to survive, I’d have killed you the first night for being dead weight.
‘Ah, the banners say Knights of the Temples. It doesn’t look like a raiding party or patrol, though. Most of the soldiers are keeping together, and it looks like they’re taking orders from men in white.’
‘Ruhen’s Children?’
Govin bobbed nervously. ‘Could be; looked enough like them, certainly, and who knows what changes our defeat has brought about in the Circle City?’
‘Not you, certainly. So the Devoted and Byora’s little saviour have become allies? An interesting turn of events, to be sure.’
‘Why?’
Larim resisted the urge to slap the man across his uncomprehending face. ‘The Devoted? Originally founded as an army of the devoted waiting for their saviour to come and lead them in battle against the last king reborn. Men who might, in troubled times, be looking for a saviour to follow? Is this an alliance or have they declared Ruhen the fulfilment of their prophecies and leader of their entirely military order? If so – do they claim Aryn Bwr is reborn, or is there some other enemy of the Gods to crusade against? “Interesting” barely covers it, and still you ask why?’
‘But what is that to us? We’re leaving the West aren’t we?’
‘We are somewhat impoverished of late,’ Larim pointed out. ‘Money is no issue, of course; we just need to murder a few people for that, but who knows what sort of trouble might await us at home, our journey notwithstanding? Spending a few months in Byora is unlikely to make much difference to what happens at home, and we might yet profit from the time. Our soldiers will have to become mercenaries if they are to have any chance of returning home, and we might sensibly do the same, if the pay is better than gold. It will make us stronger.’
He straightened his robe, tattered and muddy though it was, and indicated the two laden horses tied to a nearby fencepost. ‘Bring the horses. It’s time we sought honest employment – or whatever approximation of it I can be bothered with at any rate.’
‘And if they attack us?’
Larim’s pale lips turned into a thin, lizard-like smile. ‘Then I’ll kill them all, of course.’
The farmhouse by which they stood had been recently abandoned, but he saw no signs of violence done there. Perhaps they had fled the Menin advance, perhaps daemons had taken them in the night; Larim didn’t care much. This nation meant nothing to him, and the rural eastern parts even less so. Rumour said the city of Narkang was a place of learning and magic, and Larim had hoped to take Narkang for his own private fief once Tor Milist’s mages had been slaughtered, but beyond the city there was nothing here to interest him.
Not bothering to wait for his none-too-deft acolyte to bring up the horses, Larim walked around the farmhouse and headed for the village. It was a warm evening and still bright, so the first sentry spotted him well before he had neared the village proper. Before he had even reached shouting distance, a pair of riders had galloped out past the picket on the road and, stopping well short of the white-eye, called out, ‘Halt! State your name!’
Larim scowled at that. Even though in a less than pristine state, his size and colourful patchwork robe should have made him unmistakable. Since neither of the riders appeared to be carrying a bow he continued walking. He could hear Govin huffing somewhere behind with the horses.
‘I said, stay where you are!’ roared one of the Devoted, a bearded young man with some insignia of rank on his shoulder.
‘I wish to speak to your commander,’ Larim replied, still walking, ‘and if I stop, he will have to come to me, surely?’
His Menin accent startled the pair and they backed away. The probable lieutenant barked something at his companion and spurred his horse back towards the village without waiting for a reply.
‘Apparently new to the Order,’ Larim commented over his shoulder, but Govin made no reply.
The other soldier moved to the side of the road as Larim approached. He was as young as the first, but with a harder face, for all his apprehension. He kept his spear-tip high, as though trying to avoid giving offence, but the white-eye ignored him and marched past, heading for the picket. A cart stood at one side, ready to be rolled back across the small bridge that crossed a little brook; he supposed the cart would provide some conceivable barrier to invaders, but the bridge was so small it barely warranted the name. Of course, the brook may be small enough for me to hop across, but some visitors might be less able to cross running water, he thought.
‘Where’s your commander?’ he demanded loudly, and right on cue an officer appeared with the bearded lieutenant, now on foot, trailing along behind.
‘I’m Captain Derral,’ the man replied, doing a fair job of not sounding afraid, ‘and you’re under arrest.’
The man looked Litse, Larim judged, and his stupidity
sealed the deal for him. ‘I don’t think I am,’ he replied, ‘but I will travel back to the Circle City with you. I don’t intend to negotiate with a mere captain. I have an offer to put to your superiors.’
‘You’ll come with us in leg-irons and dosed,’ warned the captain, motioning to his soldiers.
The two on the picket levelled their crossbows at Larim and at last he did stop.
‘You’re Menin, and as such, you’re to be arrested or killed on sight.’
Larim sighed and was about to release the magic he’d been casually storing when another man appeared in view. This one was not of the Devoted.
‘Perhaps I can be of assistance?’ the man enquired, putting a hand on the captain’s shoulder, and the gesture was enough to make the soldier deferentially fall back and out of the newcomer’s way.
‘Oracle?’ he said in surprise, ‘my – my orders are clear: I have to arrest him.’
The oracle cocked his head at Derral. ‘In the interests of keeping you and your men from being slaughtered, might I suggest he be put into my custody instead?’
Larim watched the exchange with fascination, trying to work out who the oracle was. He wore a Harlequin’s patchwork clothes, but dyed black, and instead of a mask he had teardrops tattooed onto his face. That in itself should have been enough to warrant Larim hearing of the man, but it was clear he was a powerful mage too. Larim could taste the swirl of magic spicing the air around them, twisting uneasily on a breeze that failed to touch the grass between them.
‘Who are you?’ he asked at last.
‘Me? Just a simple storyteller,’ the oracle said with a half-smile. ‘I have many names, but you may call me Venn.’ He gestured for Larim to come closer. ‘Come, you can remain in my custody while we eat.’
Larim accepted in the invitation and accompanied Venn to the village inn, passing a sloped expanse of common ground currently shared by sheep and soldiers. The inn itself was set on a small rise and flanked by a pair of old spreading oak trees that provided the inn’s name. The road ran below it.
The villagers were gathered in small, nervous clumps to watch the Devoted soldiers pitch their tents, but as Larim arrived he saw a party of white-clothed preachers had started to collect each group and usher them to one side. They spoke respectfully but firmly, and the presence of the soldiers ensured there was no argument from the locals.
‘Have you experienced the peace Ruhen offers?’ Venn inquired as he offered Larim a cup of wine.
‘I have had little time for peace recently,’ Larim said, watching a new group exit the inn to look him over. He counted five Harlequins, a low-ranked Litse white-eye and a variety of armed men wearing various badges of rank and office from Akell and Byora. They all kept a respectful distance, watching him, not the preachers who were asking a similar question of the villagers.
‘Few of us have,’ Venn agreed amiably. ‘However, the time is coming for men to choose: Ruhen’s peace or King Emin’s war.’
‘I’ve fared badly with one, but now my thoughts turn elsewhere, beyond the problems of the West.’
‘Even a man with such obligations is well served to embrace peace. Ruhen’s message is one of clarity, of simplicity. I see hunger for power in you – a power rightfully yours, perhaps, but your eagerness to claim it eclipses all.’
Larim put down his cup. ‘I am a white-eye and Chosen of Larat,’ he said quietly. ‘The Lord of the Hidden Tower is power. My thoughts are not clouded; my whole being demands I return to the Ring of Fire and claim my position. Do not think I can be persuaded or turned – my devotion is to my art and no words could change that. Save your message for those for whom it was intended.’
‘The Hidden Tower is a long way to travel.’ Venn inclined his head to look past Larim and at the acolyte struggling along behind him. ‘Certainly in such limited company.’
‘My means are diminished,’ Larim confirmed, ‘and that is why I’m here. I know my worth to any ruler facing war, whether or not they espouse peace.’
Venn arched a practised eyebrow. ‘You seek employment?’
‘If you have something of true value to offer in payment.’
Venn was silent a while. ‘Such a thing could be arranged, but you would have to kneel to Ruhen first.’
‘A mercenary must know whose orders he obeys,’ Larim acknowledged.
‘Good. Your terms will be acceptable to him, I believe, and payment is assured by the fact we have currently have no mages of your skill.’ He reached into his tunic and pulled a chain from out around his neck, which he offered to Larim.
The Chosen of Larat inspected it carefully before accepting it. The chain and the coin strung on it were made of silver, but he could detect no actual spell on either, nothing beyond an echo of some presence – and even that was eclipsed by the strange swirl of magic surrounding the black Harlequin.
‘Wear this – show it to Sergeant Kayel and he will know we have met.’
‘What is it?’ Larim turned the coin over and inspected the scored lines on its surface. ‘Your runework needs practice.’
‘It is just a symbol, acceptance of our Lord’s peace. You need not wear it publicly, but few know of its use anyway. Not all Ruhen’s Children wear it. Kayel will know you have got this from me.’
‘Might he not think I killed you and took it from your body?’
Venn laughed, his voice unexpectedly high and strange, as though not his at all. His finger tapped his belt, which, Larim now noticed, had been custom-made to include a discreet pouch; he recoiled as a burst of power pulsed out from it.
Somewhere behind, Govin cried out in shock, causing the horses to startle.
‘He knows you would find that difficult,’ Venn said, taking his hand away from the concealed Skull.
Larim nodded. ‘Now I understand – but what are you doing out here, escorting a handful of preachers – and with Harlequins for company? Haven’t you just torn down every temple in Byora? So how are they here with you now?’
‘Ruhen is here to intercede with the Gods on our behalf, to perform the role that the greedy, vainglorious priests have failed to do. This is no war on the Gods, only on the dogma and vanity that fallible man has used to shade their light. The Harlequins understand purity of thought and action – that is the art they are devoted to – so they have embraced Ruhen’s message.’
‘Impressive, but you didn’t answer my first question. What are you doing out here?’
Venn inclined his head. ‘My apologies. I am bound for the West, tasked with something other than spreading Ruhen’s word.’ He paused and looked again at Govin as the acolyte struggled with their horses. ‘Does he follow you into Ruhen’s service?’
‘Govin? He lacks the brains to do anything without orders.’
‘But if he is an acolyte of the Hidden Tower he must be skilled.’
Larim curled his lip. ‘His talents are sufficient to follow orders, but expect no greatness from the man. If I should find another acolyte in the Circle City, or a sufficiently intelligent mule, his worth is greatly diminished.’
‘I could use him,’ Venn said, thoughtfully. ‘Our mages are limted, but an expendable one on my journey could prove useful.’
‘As you wish.’ Larim turned and raised his voice to his acolyte.
‘Govin, you will accompany Master Venn here; obey him as you would me.’
He didn’t wait for a response but returned his attention to Venn, who refilled their cups and raised one in toast. ‘Our first bargain,’ he said with a smile. ‘Let us drink to many more.’
King Emin signalled the halt before they reached the northernmost defensive works and went on ahead, accompanied only by a small body of guards. He looked tall beside his companions, the diminutive Dashain, who was second-in-command of the Brotherhood, and High Mage Endine. Behind them were a messenger and two more Brothers, Endine’s favourite thief, Tremal, and a pock-faced young Brother called Ame Forrow who now served as the king’s personal bodyguard.
&nb
sp; For reasons best known to Forrow, he had foregone the Brotherhood’s usual anonymous black and instead wore scarlet sleeves and pauldrons. While he lacked his predecessor’s size, he apparently wanted it made clear that he had taken Coran’s place in more than just name. Given he shared the man’s thuggish lack of humour, no one was inclined to argue. There was a grim air around the young Brother that was a stark contrast to the Land around him.
The sun had remained consistently warm on their faces as they skirted the Blue Hills and travelled southwest through the unspoiled heartland of the Kingdom of Narkang. At the roadside fruit was ripening amidst a bustle of bees and butterflies, and birds chattered constantly around them, filling the air with song, but Forrow took his new position seriously, and he saw nothing but potential dangers.
‘Where’s Suzerain Cotterin?’ the king wondered aloud as he surveyed the ring of defences surrounding the town of Farrister.
All looked peaceful there, just as they’d been told, but he knew the sight of his standard might change that very quickly. The town was surrounded by a wooden fence, more a barrier to stop untaxed goods than attacking forces. This deep into the kingdom there had never been a need for anything more.
The Menin army currently occupying Farrister hadn’t had time to be picky about where to make their stand. They had been sent to harry the south of the kingdom and lure troops away from the main invasion, but they had fought only one minor battle before the decisive battle of Moorview. When they had realised their lord was defeated they had taken Farrister and barricaded themselves in while their allies from Thotel and Tor Salan fled home. They’d been there for the last few weeks, sending scouts out in search of news and fortifying their position as much as they could as they realised how far from home and supply-lines they now were.
‘Riders, sire,’ Dashain said, pointing east. She was as serene as a standing stone, and nearly as immovable. It had taken a while for the men to get past her beauty and realise they couldn’t dominate her; several had suffered in the process.
