by Tom Lloyd
Venn’s fingers went limp, his grip broken, but the sword was still pinned against his body. The pair slammed back into the parapet together, Mihn shoving Venn’s back against the stone edge. As he forced the black Harlequin to bend backwards over the edge, the sword’s razor-sharp edge sliced the cloth of his tunic and traced a red line towards Venn’s throat.
The sight of blood made Mihn freeze and Venn’s eyes widened as he felt the cut of his skin. There was a moment of perfect stillness as both men realised the kill was there. Venn was able to watch his demise in his enemy’s face.
But Mihn didn’t press any further. His attention was focused solely on the faint glitter of light playing on the edge of Venn’s sword.
‘No,’ he whispered, and released the pressure against Venn’s arm.
The sword fell, and the two men stood as close as lovers until Venn wrenched his body upright and brought his other hand up to bear. Dragging his remaining blade behind, Venn drew its edge across Mihn’s belly and felt the steel bite deep, even as the man gripped his hand.
Mihn gasped and shuddered, his hands tightly clasped around Venn’s broken wrist, even as he felt the sword tear up to his ribs.
The movement spun him against the parapet and Venn felt
Mihn’s breath on his face as a last gasp escaped his lips, but Mihn could not maintain the pressure and released his enemy. He sagged, one shoulder over the parapet while blood spilled down his legs. He looked up, fighting back the pain to stare Venn straight in the eye. ‘You will always know,’ he whispered, ‘that only my vow saved your life.’
Venn didn’t wait to hear any more. His ruined wrist clamped to his chest, the black Harlequin spun neatly around and smashed a foot across Mihn’s face. His head snapped backwards in a spray of blood and then he was falling over the edge. Mihn fell, as limp as a dead thing, and disappeared.
Venn ran to the parapet and watched the dying man hit the lake with a dull splash. The black waters swallowed Mihn and closed above his body, the ripples of his impact lasting just a few seconds before the waves washed over them and erased any sign.
He stayed there a long half-minute, watching the inky surface below. It betrayed no sign of the man he had killed.
Eventually Venn nodded to himself. No man could survive that injury, he knew that with certainty. Even without the cold water and the exertion of swimming, Mihn would be dead in minutes from such a cut. Satisfied, he turned away.
No man of such skill deserves an audience when he dies, Venn thought to himself. It is best I did not see the light extinguished from his eyes.
‘A sentimentalist still?’ Rojak said in the recesses of Venn’s mind. The minstrel laughed softly as Venn caught the faint scent of peach blossom on the wind. ‘I did not appreciate the honour when King Emin left me to burn.’
Venn tasted sour contempt in his throat. Rojak had been the first of Azaer’s most remarkable followers, but the minstrel had never understood true warriors, men like Ilumene or Mihn. There was a commonality that could not be explained to others; that went beyond the act of one killing another. Rojak had always been contemptuous of fighting men, thinking all those who killed on command were the same.
He had hunted you for years, and still he could not bear to watch that last spark fade, minstrel.
‘Let us hope the creatures of Ghenna honour your friend so. I can hear their voices call out in the night. They sense a hunt is on.’
Venn sighed and looked down at his right arm as the pain continued to build, one final reminder of the King of the Dancers. The break was bad; it might be a lasting legacy.
‘Go,’ he croaked to the hushed crowd behind him. ‘Get after the rest.’
CHAPTER 19
They arrived with the last rays of evening bestowing an orange halo on the great oak that spread its protective branches over the heart of the village. The village was quiet, but not deserted. Faces peered at them from several windows and a handful of children stopped their play at the stream to stare at the newcomers. Nearby a clutch of splay-toed geese waddled towards them, honking, which in turn prompted barks from somewhere out of sight, but instead of dogs racing out to circle the party of horses, they were swiftly quietened.
Child Istelian nodded approvingly and gestured for the riders to halt. He was a man of middle years who’d been a labourer all his life until the First Disciple had plucked him from the crowd and handed him a white robe. Istelian’s heart still soared at the memory: the approbation in Child Luerce’s eyes and that fleeting, electrifying smile on the face of the sacred one himself.
‘Captain,’ Istelian said softly. The soldier hurried to his side and Istelian granted him a benevolent smile. ‘You will wait for us here.’
‘Wait?’ Captain Tachan repeated in surprise. He was a burly, bearded Chetse, but there was no doubting his loyalty to the Knights of the Temples. ‘Sure about that? This is Narkang territory now; best my men check the village out first.’
Istelian frowned, the expression enough to halt Tachan’s protests. Twenty soldiers to command, the proud warrior heritage of the Chetse tribe, years of wearing a Devoted uniform – yet he found himself taking orders from a commoner. He chafed at the change, but Istelian was pleased to see him recognise his place.
We are remaking the Land, Captain, Istelian said to himself, and your noble lineage means little now. It is the pure spirits who lead, those without might or riches, and Ghenna shall welcome those who oppose our will.
‘These are poor folk, and pious, cherished by the Gods. They will welcome the message of our saviour.’
‘Certainly,’ Tachan agreed hurriedly. ‘I meant only that King Emin’s men might be hiding among them. Our enemies will seek to harm one as blessed as you.’
‘The Gods will see me safe,’ Ilstelian replied, dismounting. The remainder of the white robed preachers, seven in all, followed suit, and fell in behind their leader.
‘As Ruhen walked out to face the army of daemons, so I shall face our enemies without fear. The Child’s grace shall carry me through.’
‘But in case—’ The soldier didn’t get any further.
Ilstelian raised a hand and cut him off. ‘Come, Children of Ruhen,’ he said, holding his oak staff high, ‘let us visit peace upon these tormented lands.’ And with the rest trailing along behind he headed down the dirt track that led into the heart of the village. A long wicker fence served as the village perimeter, encircling the two dozen houses, while cultivated hedgerows penned several tracts of land beyond.
‘These are honest, Gods-fearing folk,’ Istelian announced to his followers. ‘Their only loyalty to the distant king will be born of fear.’ He passed through an open gate, crossed the bridge and walked onto the common land, where a cluster of villagers were already awaiting him. Istelian walked up to them, observing the apprehension on their faces with a slight satisfaction. His stature was clear to these people, his purpose obvious in every step he took.
‘Good folk, may I ask the name of this village?’ Istelian asked them loudly.
The villagers glanced at each other like nervous sheep, before one found the courage to speak up. ‘Tarafain,’ said the youngest man, a broad shouldered individual with a rolling local accent.
‘How can we help you, sir?’
‘Sir’ – these people know their place.
‘I seek the village elders. I would speak to you all of peace.’
The farmer’s eyes widened and he pointed mutely towards a stone fronted building, clearly a tavern, on the far side of the green. There were a handful of people sitting outside and watching life in the village pass by.
With a curt nod to his guide, Istelian continued on.
The tavern was the only two storey-building in the village; blackened beams protruded out from lime-wash walls and smoke rose from a chimney at each end of the building. A youth lounged at the stable door, watching them with an insolent expression on his face.
‘You are the village elders?’ Istelian enquired of the f
our lounging outside the tavern door.
A middle-aged couple were sitting furthest from him, with an old crone on their right and a greying man opposite her. The elder two seemed to be scowling at him; the woman through poor eyesight, the man perhaps due to the mug of beer he gripped.
‘I’m the headman,’ the younger man said in a deep voice. At last he did stand, and offered a bow of sorts. His wife jumped up beside him, but the other two made no such effort. ‘Hesher Vres at your service.’
‘I am Child Istelian,’ he said, inclining his head to return the greeting. ‘The Gods have favoured me to number among the ranks of Ruhen’s Children. I would speak to you and your vil lage of peace.’
‘Got enough o’ that already,’ the old woman croaked. ‘Don’t need no more; be off with you.’
Istelian turned to regard the crone. She lacked the tattoos or charms he’d expect of a witch, but he knew in rural places those too stubborn to die were permitted much freedom to speak.
‘And you are?’
‘A woman who’s seen enough o’ this Land ta know we don’t want nothing from the east.’
Istelian sniffed. ‘You have no wish for peace? You would prefer King Emin steals your sons for his army of daemons? Are you a heretic?’
The old woman hissed and rapped her knuckles on the tabletop. ‘My sons died in the king’s service,’ she screeched, ‘and I’ll have no false priest diminish their sacrifice!’
‘I am no priest,’ Istelian replied smoothly, ‘and I know your sons served their king faithfully, but it is this king who now betrays those he should protect.’
The older man growled and drained his beer. ‘Better watch your tongue, boy – some folk round here won’t take kindly to you bad-mouthing the king.’
‘I know the thrall you are under, the fear of his armies you all feel.’ Istelian threw out an arm to gesture back the way he had come. ‘But I bring peace in my wake – the word of Ruhen to set you free, his servants to stand beside you against the tyranny of the great heretic.’
‘Great heretic?’ the man echoed, rising from his seat to glare at Istelian eye to eye. ‘That’s the twist o’ your dogma now, is it? Make him out to be Aryn Bwr?’
‘Ruhen’s peace will free you all,’ Istelian insisted. He stepped back and raised his voice so those inside the tavern, no doubt listening intently, could clearly hear him. ‘Ruhen will free you from the cares of this Land, free you from the tyranny of war that has so plagued us, and drive off the daemons that continue to torment us.’
‘Hah!’ spat the old woman, jabbing a thumb at her fellow doubter, ‘he’s already seen those buggers off.’
‘You have faced down daemons?’ Istelian asked, astonished by the outrageous claim.
‘A few,’ the old man confirmed with a deepening scowl. ‘So what’s this peace you offer then? Might it be the rule of the
Knights of the Temples rather than Narkang? Tribunals and inquisitors? Religious law and counter-insurgency? How many’ll die while you enforce your peace?’
‘How dare you make such claims?’ Istelian spat. ‘Ruhen is the emissary of the Gods and I am his mouthpiece. To question me is to question the blessed child, and that is heresy of the foulest kind.’
‘Not allowed questions under your peace, eh?’
‘Honest devotion to the Gods is Ruhen’s way. To accuse and undermine, to whisper and lie, that is the work of daemons and all such heresy must be rooted out.’
The old man scratched his white stubbled-chin. ‘Aye, thought as much.’
Istelian felt the fury erupt within himself; it was all he could do not to strike the man down where he stood. ‘Henceforth this village is under the protection of the Knights of the Temples!’ he declared loudly, ‘and you are all now subject to the laws of the Gods. Rejoice, people of Tarafain, you are free from the tyrant of Narkang and protected by the peace of Ruhen!’
He spun around and snapped at the nearest of the Children behind. ‘You, summon Captain Tachan; inform him there are heretics in his village!’
‘Heretics?’ the old man mused as the Child ran back the way they had come. ‘Well, I must admit, Lord Death weren’t so happy to see me last time He did.’
‘Silence!’ Istelian bellowed and backhanded the old man across the mouth. ‘You dare speak of the Chief of the Gods in such irreverent tones? Headman Vres, this man is a poison thorn within your community. Assemble the village. His re education must be witnessed by every man, woman and child.’
The old man slowly spat a gobbet of bloody spit onto the ground at his feet. ‘Now that weren’t so peaceful.’
‘You are a heretic!’ Istelian hissed, grabbing him by the arm. ‘There can be no leniency shown to the enemies of the Gods – the daemon within you must be scourged from your body!’
The old man gave him a blood-tinted grin. ‘Daemon? Not quite.’ His weathered face twitched strangely, his cheeks shuddering as though something was fighting to escape from within. A white patina appeared on his skin, the lines around his eyes smoothing away as his brow softened and become narrower.
Istelian staggered back into his remaining attendants, one hand raised protectively. ‘What magic is this?’ he screeched. ‘You are damned! Sold to some creature of the Dark Place!’
‘It’s more of a loan,’ the old man said, his voice higher now, almost feminine, ‘and I believe “Goddess” is the appropriate term.’
The man’s pale, ghostly colour increased with every word and as he stepped forward, the fading light seemed all the more pronounced. ‘You claim to speak in the name o’ the Gods, but you know nothing of them,’ the man said in a voice that cut the air like the crash of thunder. ‘The shadows in Ruhen’s eyes are born of Ghenna’s darkness, and I’ll not leave this village to fall under the rule of a shadow. We don’t submit to shadows here.’
Istelian gaped, looking left and right in his astonishment. Faces had appeared at doors and windows, the ignorant rustics all staring at him without any of the respect due to him.
‘You will hang,’ he croaked through the deepening gloom of evening. ‘It’s a crime against the Gods to speak such things. Your tongue will be torn from your mouth and fed to the dogs – your eyes will be put out, your body driven onto a stake. All these torments await you in the next life, and so they will be visited upon you in this one too.’
The sound of running feet seemed to spur him into movement and Istelian straightened up. ‘Captain …’ The words faded in his throat as he saw only one figure approaching.
‘Child Istelian!’ the captain called, sleeves flapping as he made up the ground. ‘They’re gone – the soldiers, all gone!’
The old man stepped forward, a knife appearing from nowhere. Quick as a snake he slashed open Istelian’s cheek, and the preacher fell back with a cry—
But the old man didn’t follow up his assault; he just stood before the table with a satisfied look on his face, his knife still at the ready.
‘Looks like your soldiers have learned to fear the ghosts of dusk,’ the old man said evilly, ‘but I think that’d be too easy for you. So let’s find out how strong your faith really is, how much this peace of the shadow’s really protects.’
He grabbed Istelian in a surprisingly powerful grip.
Despite his desperate efforts, he couldn’t break free, and when a second man, barefoot and dressed all in black, took his other arm, Istelian felt the strength drain out of his body. He was dragged back to the gate, and beyond it he saw the horses they had arrived on, those of the preachers and the Devoted soldiers too, all riderless and whickering nervously. The old man and his fellow daemon-worshipper took him past the horses and tossed him down into the dirt beside the road.
‘See the trees?’ the evil old man rasped, his face shining with what looked to Istelian to be a terrible delight. ‘The light’s fading now. Might be you start to see eyes, appearing in the shadows below them.’ He grabbed Istelian’s hand and slapped the bloodied dagger in it, closing it around the grip.<
br />
‘There’s your path, back through the trees. Lead your preachers that way and protect them with the peace you offered these folk today. Best you run, though – see if you can outrun ’em – for I swear on my tarnished soul you’ll suffer if you ever come back here.’
He gave Istelian a shove with his boot and sent him sprawling in the dirt.
‘Go!’ the old man roared. ‘Run back to your shadow and tell him we’re coming for him next!’
Vesna watched his friend slump against a tree and sink to the ground, his weight pushing the tip of the black sword a foot into the earth. Their makeshift camp was quiet, a full night and day of travel enough to drain them all. Hulf crept up to his master’s thigh, instinctively wary of the terrible weapon Isak held.
‘Isak,’ Vesna began before tailing off. He squatted down in front of the scarred man and tried to make Isak look at him, but the white-eye stared forward at nothing, while his left hand idly stroked Hulf’s back. The dog’s ears were flat against his head; his whole manner had changed, for he felt the loss of Mihn as deeply as the rest of them.
‘You’ve hardly spoken since we left Vanach,’ Vesna said at last.
In the failing light Isak’s right hand looked excessively shadowed. Perhaps it was just the comparison with his bone-white left, but to Vesna the skin looked darkened beyond the shadows of deep scars. The Mortal-Aspect’s eyes were constantly drawn back to the black sword in Isak’s hand. Nartis’ lightning had burned the colour from Isak’s left arm, imbued the skin with its own colour. Who could say what effect the Key of Magic, Death’s own weapon, might have?
‘There’s nothing to say,’ Isak said, at last looking up at him. ‘He’s gone.’
The sun had gone down and the broad canopy of the fir trees under which they sat advanced the gloom further. Fei Ebarn was in the process of setting a fire while Zhia teased forth the shadows of the forest to hide its light. Isak’s face was blank, drained of anger or any form of animation; that was what Vesna feared more than anything in a white-eye: dull, passive acceptance.
