The Ragged Man

by Lloyd, Tom

  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 disciple
s 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.

  ‘Your true face please,’ Gaur growled.

  The man’s mouth curled into a slight smile. He peeled his gloves off to reveal long, delicate fingers and unfastened his cloak. Underneath he wore a black tunic patterned with sinuous green dragons, overlaid by crossed baldrics. A bronze gorget at his neck was engraved with what looked like writing and studded with small gems.

  He unhooked it, and Amber gave a start that sent a fresh twinge of pain around his ribcage.

  The man’s face seemed to fall away from his head and vanish for a fraction of a second. As Amber’s eyes refocused he saw no man’s face at all: a sharper, curved jaw line, a thinner skull and more prominent cheekbones. Though Amber had been expecting it, he could not quite stop a moment of shock.

  As beautiful as a woman, with an unknowable air and a cruel glitter in his eyes, the true Elf slipped back his hood and gave a mocking half-bow. By some freak of birth he had been untouched by the curse and was one of only a handful of true Elves born to each generation. In that instant their eyes met, Amber realised Arlal Poisonblade knew exactly how rare he was.

  ‘Drink?’ Gaur asked, indicating a tall silver jug to Arlal’s left.

  ‘No,’ he said, his voice little more than a whisper. With fastidious care the Elf tucked his gloves into his belt and slipped the weapons-bag from his shoulder. The only adornment he wore other than the gorget was a silver belt-buckle in the shape of a dragon’s head. Everything else was as plain and practical as one might expect of an assassin in the land of his ancient enemies.

  ‘Will you sit?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘To business then.’ If Gaur took offence at the Elf’s demeanour he gave no sign of it. He patted the sheathed sword meaningfully. ‘We have another job for you. More difficult this time.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A Farlan general. By now we assume he will have returned to Tirah.’

  ‘A general more difficult than the Krann of the Chetse?’ Arlal said contemptuously. His Menin was imperfect, as though he was reluctant to sully his mouth with a human dialect, but it was understandable.

  Amber was careful not to react. He’d known a Raylin mercenary had wounded Krann Charr with a magical arrow, but he hadn’t been part of Lord Styrax’s inner circle before the invasion and the name of the assassin had remained a secret. Even with the heretical direction their plans were now going in it was a shock to hear a true Elf had struck the first blow of their conquest — the arrow had allowed Charr to be possessed by a daemon, which had then usurped Lord Chalat’s position.

  Without Arlal’s first blow the Menin advance force would never have been able to defeat the Chetse in one sudden strike, and Amber himself would never have had the opportunity to meet the Chosen of Tsatach in battle barely a month past, let alone kill him; more likely he’d have died assaulting Thotel.

  ‘He is no longer just a general; he is also the Mortal-Aspect of Karkarn,’ the general said.

  The Elf laughed. ‘Your Gods are so weak now they need mortals?’

  Gaur didn’t respond. No good could come from discussing the Gods with an Elf, one cursed or not.

  ‘The spirits are stirred up. I hear their whispers in the dark,’ Arlal continued, a sudden intensity crossing his face. ‘They tell me the Farlan thief is dead.’ The Elf’s eyes glittered with avarice and Amber realised the thievery he meant was Lord Isak’s possession of Siulents and Eolis — the greatest of Elven weapons.

  ‘That is true,’ Gaur confirmed. ‘He was foolish enough to face Lord Styrax in battle.’

  ‘Then my price is what is rightfully mine,’ the Elf spat.

  Gaur cocked his head and Amber realised he had been expecting that. ‘His gifts? We do not have them to offer; all but his helm were sent to the Dark Place with him.’

  As Arlal hesitated, Amber understood: they knew almost nothing of the Elven race, or its prophecies, with the exception of the prophet, Shalstik, who foretold Aryn Bwr’s rebirth, but Eolis and Siulents would be more than just weapons to them. They were symbols of their greatest king — it might be that possession of them alone would be enough to confer the authority to rule, even without using them to claim he was Aryn Bwr reborn.

  ‘What do you offer?’ Arlal said at last.

  ‘This sword,’ Gaur said, holding out the weapon Amber had won. ‘Taken from Lord Chalat’s dead fingers, it is Elven-made — I believe in your tongue it is named Golaeth.’

  Amber could see Arlal’s shoulders stiffen, but the Elf made no effort to reach for the weapon.

  ‘It is perhaps a relic of my people, but it is a poor thing compared to Eolis. It is not enough to kill a God.’

  ‘He is no God, only one touched by the divine,’ Gaur pointed out. ‘It will be no different to killing one of the Chosen.’

  ‘I need more.’

  Gaur looked over at Amber briefly, who had nothing to contribute beyond meeting Gaur’s look and looking stern, and hoping his slight nod would add to the impression of compromise. ‘What do you need?’ the beastman asked.

  ‘Arrows to kill him, Golaeth if they fail to. The helm and its weight in rubies as final payment.’

  ‘Rubies?’

  The Elf gave a curt nod, but no explanation, and Amber realised suddenly he did have a contribution to the conversation.

  ‘For making bloodrose amulets,’ the major said, his eyes on Arlal. ‘It’s said they’re composed of rubies.’ One of the mages healing him had mentioned it — Lord Chalat had been thought to wear such an amulet, though nothing had been found on his body. They were created by the Elven warrior orders and used instead of physical armour. Clearly some such orders remained.

  ‘Our friend here has plans of his own back home,’ Amber went on, watching as Arlal’s eyes narrowed enough to prove him right. ‘With Golaeth, enough rubies t
o make several bloodrose amulets and Aryn Bwr’s helm, he may find power and supporters enough for a coup.’

  ‘That, human,’ Arlal spat, ‘is not your concern.’

  ‘It is not,’ Gaur agreed, ‘but the price is acceptable. Inform Lord Larim of your requirements and he shall ensure the arrows are made.’

  He held the sword out and this time Arlal took it and slipped the ancient copper-bladed weapon from the sheath to inspect it. Like many magical weapons it was oversized, too big to be of any real use without its imbued power. It would have looked comical in the hands of the slender Arlal but for the ease with which he moved it through the air. It was a straight, double-edged blade coming to a short point, and as Arlal ran reverential fingers down the flat Amber saw four complex swirling runes briefly glow orange.