CHAPTER 20
Major Jachen squinted
up at the sun and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. It was
mid-morning and they’d been travelling since dawn, making a final
push to reach Llehden before the end of the day. The sun had been
in their eyes all the way and Jachen’s head was hurting because of
it - that, and the questions running nonstop through his
head.
Lord Isak’s final
orders for his Personal Guard had been to travel to Narkang and
enter the service of King Emin. That in itself had been enough to
provoke near-rebellion in the ranks. Count Vesna had limited the
impact by returning the married men to their previous positions
before giving the order, but still it rankled. Some of the men
still refused to believe Jachen was as much in the dark as they,
especially once they had found their new master at his castle
outside Kamfer’s Ford.
‘You will go to
Llehden,’ the king had said, his face inscrutable. ‘You will find
the Witch of Llehden. She has a use for you.’
Jachen shook his
head. He had been a mercenary for years, and had served many
masters, but this was the first time he’d been passed around like a
piece of currency.
‘Can you not tell me
any more, your Majesty?’ he’d pleaded. ‘What do I say to my men?
They’re the best of the Farlan Army, and they’re ready to die for
their lord without hesitation - but to be handed off like
mercenaries or slaves . . . they’re men of honour, your Majesty —
’
‘They are men of
war,’ King Emin had replied, with enough snap in his voice that the
black-clad bodyguard at his side put a hand on his sword
hilt.
Jachen had been given
an audience by himself, while the rest of Lord Isak’s Personal
Guard were left in the courtyard below and told in no uncertain
terms to stay put until Jachen returned.
The king’s reaction
had left Jachen even more confused; the Farlan and the people of
Narkang were allies, were they not? Yet everyone at Camatayl Castle
had treated them with suspicion and hostility, as if they were
enemies in their midst rather than proven friends and
comrades.
‘What is more,’ King
Emin had continued after a tense moment, ‘you will go to Llehden
with only two of your men - am I right in thinking not all are
Palace Guard?’
Jachen had been slow
to work out what the king was talking about, and his silence
prompted the bodyguard to take a warning step forwards. ‘The
Ascetites? Yes, your Majesty, three aren’t Ghosts but agents of the
Chief Steward.’
‘They will stay here
then, I have need of such men. Their names?’
‘Ah, Tiniq, Leshi and
Shinir - they are as thick as thieves and about as honest, but
Tiniq at least can be trusted to follow order. He’s General Lahk’s
twin brother.’
‘Ah yes, now I
remember. I have some knife work to be done. You may tell those
three - and any of the rest with the necessary skills - to report
to Dashain.’
‘Your Majesty — ’
Jachen had begun, only to have his protests cut off once
more.
‘Major! Is there any
part of that instruction you do not understand? ’
Jachen hung his head,
well-aware of his place and how far any objections could be taken.
‘No, your Majesty.’
‘Then carry out your
orders, and without further question, if you please. Narkang shares
your grief for Lord Isak, but it does not excuse forgetting your
place - indeed, it shows just how serious events have become.’ King
Emin’s face had hardened as he leaned forward over his desk. ‘You
may not fully understand your orders; you may not have all of the
information you think you need, but that should be nothing new.
This is a war, and you must do your part. The more you do not
understand the reasons for your mission, the more you should
realise the deadly importance of the task. Do you understand
me?’
Jachen, chastised,
saluted, not trusting himself to speak. He had talked his way into
trouble his entire career, but he knew enough about the Narkang
king to realise talking back now wouldn’t just result in
demotion.
‘You all right, sir?’
came a voice from behind him.
Jachen flinched, and
Private Marad chuckled in a half-hearted way. The other member of
their party, a grizzled sergeant called Ralen, just squinted at
him, but as he looked back, the major couldn’t tell whether Ralen’s
expression was one of concern or just discomfort at the
sun.
‘I’m fine, Sergeant,
just wondering what’s waiting for us.’
‘Bunch o’ jabbering
monsters, sir,’ Ralen drawled, ‘if it’s anything like the last time
we was ’ere.’
‘Nah,’ Marad said,
‘gentry only comes out a night.’ He pointed past Jachen to a long
line of huge pine trees that dominated the view. ‘See them big
stones at the base o’ them trees? They’re called twilight stones;
gentry stand on ’em and watch the sun set. That’s the first you’ll
see of ’em all day, so we were told.’
Jachen followed the
line of Marad’s finger. He thought he could make out shapes in the
shadows under the trees, but with the sun so high it was hard to
make out much more. ‘We’ll soon find out enough,’ he said, urging
his horse into a trot again. ‘Let’s hope we get more answers here
than we did from the king.’
‘From a witch?’ Marad
scoffed. ‘Not bloody likely - ’bout as much chance as ’er lettin’
the sarge shag ’er.’
Ralen gave a wistful
sigh and started on after Jachen. ‘Man’s gotta have goals in life,’
he said, prompting another laugh from Marad. ‘Considerin’ the
closest thing she’s got to a friend has blue fur and fangs, I ain’t
givin’ up yet.’
The three soldiers
found themselves riding through the belt of ancient pine that
denoted the Llehden border in silence. There was an occasional
marker stone, but it was clear few travelled this way. The woods
were strangely hushed for a spring afternoon, the birdsong sounding
distant, coming in clipped bursts, as though even the birds were
wary to break the silence.
The pines extended a
mile past the twilight stones, dwindling in number as the land
rose, then dipped away. Only when the last of the huge trees were
behind them did they start to see signs of civilisation, and when
they reached the first hamlet it was the soldiers who were more
surprised. At a fork in the path they came across eight cottages
huddled along the bank of a stream, penned in by a wicker fence and
cultivated hawthorn thickets. To the right the oak and birch trees
thinned out and they could make out the long grass of
pastureland.
Jachen assumed the
thorny fencing was to keep the animals from wandering at night, but
as they drew closer he began to pick out rabbit-bone charms and
polished metal discs hanging amongst the branches. It was unusual
to see so many charms on display like that - they didn’t look
religious, and it was the sort of thing priests objected
to.
For a small
settlement frightened enough to put so much effort into protective
charms, they betrayed very little fear - or even interest - at the
sight of strange horsemen. The few locals in sight - five women of
varying ages and three scrawny children - watched them approach
without abandoning their daily activities. A few long-legged dogs
ran out and began to bark, but a word of command from one of the
women was enough to bring them back to the open gate.
‘We’re looking for
the witch,’ Jachen called, but he received only blank looks for his
troubles. ‘No? Don’t speak Farlan eh?’
He reined in his
horse and tried to recall what little of the language he’d learned.
King Emin’s peace had limited the amount of work a mercenary could
find within Narkang lands, but Jachen hadn’t always been exacting
about the jobs he took and a man who could read and write rarely
starved. He said, ‘The woman not like you?’ - the best he could
manage in the Narkang tongue - but it did at least get a
reaction.
One of the younger
women pointed southwest, saying something he couldn’t understand
and shaking her head as she spoke.
Before he could thank
her, a man called out from the woods behind them, ‘She’s warning
you, says you don’t want to go past the village.’
Jachen turned, his
hand instinctively going to his sword, but he froze, his mouth
dropping open in surprise. It took him a moment to get the name,
then he had it: Morghien, the man of many spirits. His
weatherbeaten face was dirtier than the last time they’d met, in
Tirah Palace, but he was certainly looking at the ageing wanderer
who, with Mihn, had brought Lady Xeliath to the Farlan
capital.
‘You’ll catch flies
if you keep that up, Major,’ Morghien added, bowing mockingly
before starting towards them. ‘I see you’re still whole, Ralen;
there really is no justice in this life.’
Ralen chuckled and
gave the man a careless salute. ‘Morghien, you ole cheat, still
sneakin’ up on folk then? I thought Marshal Carelfolden ’ad warned
you about that.’
Morghien smiled, but
his response was drowned out by an explosion of noise as the dogs
caught sight of him and raced out again, barking with a far greater
ferocity than they had at the riders. Morghien stopped dead while
the woman Jachen had spoken to yelled at the animals. The three
long-haired guard-dogs ignored the horses and stopped only when
they were just past the Farlan, as though ready to protect them
from the eccentric wanderer.
Jachen had met
Morghien often enough for him to be wary at the wanderer’s
unexpected appearance. What he hadn’t expected was Morghien’s
reaction to the dogs - only the woman’s repeated shouts were
holding them in check at all, and none were showing any sign of
backing down, but Morghien had sunk to his knees, as if to make
himself an easier target.
Without taking his
eyes off the dogs Morghien untied a dead rabbit from his pack and
tossed it to the dogs, closing his eyes and mouthing something,
looking to Jachen for all the world as if he was
praying.
To Jachen’s complete
astonishment, the dogs shut up. The largest of the three picked up
the rabbit and fixed Morghien with a baleful look before carrying
his prize back inside the hamlet fence.
‘What in the name o’
Larat’s twisty cock did yer do there?’ Ralen asked, clearly
mirroring Jachen’s own surprise.
‘Just said hello,’
Morghien replied, getting to his feet with the groan of a man far
older than he looked. Morghien, a man who counted King Emin among
his friends, had looked exactly the same when he met the king
almost twenty years previously, and twenty years before that
too.
‘The hamlet’s got a
guardian spirit, one they’ve linked to the dogs somehow - that’d be
your witch, I’d expect.’
‘And it took
exception to you?’
Morghien laughed.
‘Took fright, just as likely, but it acts like a dog and they don’t
need much excuse to bark.’
‘Were you waiting for
us here?’ Jachen interrupted. ‘Did the king tell you to meet
us?’
‘Pah, he’s got a war
to think about now, and he don’t know any more than you do
anyway.’
‘What do you
mean?’
Morghien cocked his
head at Jachen. ‘Curious, he didn’t tell you any more than he had
to. You ain’t here at his order; you’re here at the
witch’s.’
‘Lord Isak’s last
orders said we were to follow King Emin’s orders, not those of some
village witch,’ said Jachen, looking puzzled.
Morghien nodded.
‘Maybe so, but the witch sent Emin a message a few weeks back. She
asked for you by name.’
‘Me?’ Jachen said in
surprise. ‘I barely met the woman.’
‘But you have kind
eyes, and women like that,’ Morghien laughed with a wink at Ralen.
‘Might be something else, of course, but we won’t know until we
find her.’
He called his thanks
to the woman by the cottages and disappeared into the trees, coming
back almost immediately. ‘Come on, Major, let’s see if love awaits
you,’ he said as he started off down the path she had
indicated.
Morghien was silent
as they continued on their journey, passing though a second
charm-enclosed hamlet before the trees opened out and they found a
village straddling what was now a small river. Compared to the rest
of Llehden it looked bustling, and was apparently large enough to
have no more of a protective fence than a boundary ring of
charm-inscribed stones. They could see smoke from more than a dozen
homes rising into the air, and hear the clash of a blacksmith at
work, and there were figures visible working on half a dozen
smallholdings in between the cottages.
‘No lord of the manor
here,’ Morghien commented as they crossed the boundary stones, ‘and
they eat all they grow; you Farlan wouldn’t approve.’
‘Ain’t they lucky,’
Marad drawled, ‘the king’s law rules all round their border, so’s
they gets the best o’ both.’
‘Don’t fool yourself;
it’s not so simple - or safe - in these parts. Start thinking that
way, you might not last the night.’
‘Bloody peasants an’
their bloody superstitions,’ Marad replied, spitting on the ground,
‘if it can hurt you, you can hurt it. I’ll put my glaive against
anythin’ Llehden’s got.’
‘I’d be interested to
see that,’ Morghien said with grin, ‘from a safe distance.’ He
broke off to speak to a man with greying whiskers and a hoe resting
across his broad shoulders, who had come over from the nearest
smallholding. They talked briefly, and Jachen noticed a look of
relief crossing the man’s face when Morghien shook his head in
answer to a question. After a while he pointed to a house on the
far side of the village.
‘The witch is here in
the village today; one of the women is in labour,’ Morghien
reported back to them, and led them across the small bridge and
into the centre of the village, scattering the hissing black-winged
geese grazing on a patch of common ground.
As they headed to the
house, Jachen asked, ‘What about the first bit?’
‘First?’
‘What the man said.’
Jachen said, jabbing a thumb behind them.
‘Ah, nothing. He
asked if we were hunting the Ragged Man.’
‘Who?’
Morghien shrugged.
‘Some local spirit, by the sound of it; he said it’d eat our souls
if we went after it.’
‘Let’s not, then,’
Jachen said with a shiver. War he could handle, but the
supernatural terrified him. The sight of the Reapers slaughtering
Scree’s population still haunted his dreams . . . he had none of
Marad’s optimism.
At the house Morghien
spoke to a stern-looking woman with greying hair and returned to
the Farlan soldiers looking grave. ‘She sounds worried; it’s her
sister givin’ birth. If you’re brave enough, go fetch the witch out
- me, I’ll wait.’
Ralen and Marad shook
their heads violently and followed Morghien over to what proved to
be a tavern. Finding himself alone and the sole object of the
woman’s scrutiny, Jachen beat a hasty retreat. The three soldiers
busied themselves attending to their horses before they stretched
out beside Morghien on the grass with pots of the potent local
brew.
It was two hours
before the witch appeared, arms bloody and a small bundle carried
reverentially in her hands. She handed the dead infant to the
sister, who bowed her head as she accepted her tiny charge. That
done she crossed the green, not paying the new arrivals a moment’s
notice, but before Jachen could call out to her to attract her
attention, Morghien stopped him.
‘She’ll not speak to
you, not yet,’ he said, gesturing for Jachen to rise and follow
him.
The two men trailed
the witch at a respectful distance and watched her wash her arms
and apron in the river. Only when she rose from her knees and began
to wring the sodden cloth out did Morghien allow Jachen to
approach.
‘You come on a bad
day,’ Ehla, the witch of Llehden, said in stilted
Farlan.
‘At your order,’
Jachen pointed out brusquely.
She turned to face
them and he found himself taking a step back at the look she gave
him.
‘Not my order.
Isak’s.’
Jachen stiffened.
‘Lord Isak is dead.’
‘He died,’ Ehla
agreed. ‘Your loyalty died too?’
‘Of course not!’
Jachen growled. ‘What in the name of the Dark Place are you
suggesting?’
‘That your service is
not finished.’ She didn’t explain further but shook out her apron,
draped it over her arm and headed back to the house. Jachen looked
to Morghien for answers, but saw only amusement in his
face.
‘Don’t give me that
kicked puppy look,’ Morghien said dismissively as they turned to
follow the witch. ‘I’m as much in the dark as you - just I’m more
used to it.’
‘And not even the
king knows why we’re here?’
‘There’s much Emin
keeps from me, that’s what kings do.’
Jachen bit back his
reply, knowing he’d get nothing useful from the strange man. He
followed in silence, determined not to speak any more than
necessary until someone gave him a few answers.
The witch didn’t stay
long at the house; she checked first on her patient, then gave the
sister a few stern instructions, rejoining the men a quarter of an
hour later. She led them south at a brisk pace, ignoring the looks
of alarm on the faces of those townsfolk they passed.
The path was little
more than a rabbit run. After an hour the trees had become denser
and the Farlan were forced to dismount and lead their horses. From
time to time Morghien spoke to the witch in the local dialect, but
her responses were curt. Morghien didn’t appear to be put off, but
the witch began to ignore him and the wanderer was forced to get
Sergeant Ralen to bring him up to date instead.
With every mention of
fanaticism within the cults, Morghien’s voice betrayed a growing
anger, one that Jachen had never heard before. Similarly, the news
that Count Vesna had become the Mortal-Aspect of Karkarn was met
with a snort of disgust, but it was news that a huge dragon had
been awakened under the Library of Seasons that finally made
Morghien fall silent.
As the afternoon
progressed, a breeze picked up and Jachen realised he could smell
smoke on the wind. He saw Ralen had noticed it too, and was
similarly confused. The witch wouldn’t have left the fire burning
at her home, so clearly she was leading them to someone - but who
would she want them to meet in this backwater part of Narkang? But
he was determined not to say another word until he got some
answers.
At last the trees
petered out and Jachen saw a lake stretching out in front of him,
beside which was a cottage. To his complete astonishment there was
a man sitting on a small jetty, fishing, with a grey-furred dog at
his side. At the sound of visitors the dog turned and began to
bark; the man twisted and hooked an arm around the dog’s chest.
They walked cautiously, waiting for the man to quieten the frantic
dog before risking getting too near, but at last the man released
the struggling bundle of fur and jumped up to greet them, a
welcoming smile on his face and a firm grip on the scruff of the
dog’s neck.
‘Mihn?’ Jachen
exclaimed.
The failed Harlequin
gave a small bow before gripping the major firmly by the wrist. He
wore a shapeless woollen shirt with the sleeves half-rolled up,
exposing the curling trails of the leaf tattoos on each arm that
ended at his wrist. For the hundredth time Jachen wondered what the
tattoos and the runes on each leaf did. The dog danced around them,
watching all three warily as it crept forward to sniff at their
boots.
‘Good to see you
again, Major,’ Mihn said, greeting Ralen and Marad before Morghien
embraced him. ‘May I introduce you to Hulf? Toss him a strip of
smoked meat and he will be your friend for life.’
‘When did you leave
Tirah?’
‘Not long after the
army, I had instructions to carry out.’
Jachen faltered. ‘Ah,
have you . . .’
‘Heard the news?’
Mihn replied gravely. ‘I knew when you did.’
‘Fucking spawn of
Ghenna!’ Marad yelled, dropping the reins of his horse and yanking
his glaive from its sheath, and Jachen whirled around in time to
see a shape retreat into the shadows of the cottage.
‘What was it?’ Jachen
snapped, drawing his own sword as Ralen fell in beside
Marad.
‘Some bastard
daemon,’ Marad growled, his face white with shock, and advanced on
the cottage, his glaive raised and ready to strike.
‘Lower your weapons!’
Mihn yelled, racing in front of Marad. ‘It is not what you
think!’
Beside Mihn the dog
crouched, muscles bunching as it snarled at the angry voices. The
guardsman blinked at Mihn and stopped, but he kept his glaive
high.
‘Not what I think?
What I saw ain’t possible, and it’s damn sunny for that to be a
ghost!’
‘Mihn,’ Jachen called
warily, ‘what’s going on?’
‘Lower your weapons
and back off,’ Mihn said firmly. He was unarmed but a steel-capped
staff rested against the door just a few yards away. ‘Marad, I mean
it - back away now, or I will put you down.’
‘The fuck’re you
t’give me orders?’
Jachen looked at
Mihn’s expression and grabbed the soldier by his collar. Without a
word he dragged Marad back and Ralen followed.
Only then did Mihn
relax and push the reluctant dog away towards the
cottage.
While Marad still
spluttered with anger, Jachen dropped his own sword and yanked the
glaives from his soldiers’ hands.
‘Astonishing,’
Morghien murmured, as if oblivious to the confrontation, staring
open-mouthed at the cottage.
‘His mind remains
fragile,’ Mihn said in a quiet voice. ‘You cannot begin to
comprehend the horrors he has endured. You will all compose
yourselves, and you will not speak until I permit it, do you
understand me?’
The three Farlan
exchanged looks. Jachen agreed at once, but Marad, still stunned,
remained silent until Jachen glared at him. Eventually both
soldiers nodded while the witch, standing beside of the water,
watched them impassively.
‘Better,’ Mihn said
after a while. He collected his staff and gave Marad a warning look
before stepping inside the cottage. The Farlan could hear soft
murmuring, as if Mihn were coaxing the occupant out as he would a
deer.
At first all Jachen
saw was a huge stooped figure wearing a cloak made of rags, arms
wrapped protectively about its body and head held low. Hulf ran
straight to him, dancing around him with obvious delight before
taking up a protective position between him and the
soldiers.
Jachen could scarcely
believe he was looking at a man. He was massive; even stooped he
towered over Mihn, and he was far wider. One shoulder was dropped
low, which reminded Jachen of men he’d known with broken ribs. Even
when the man pushed back the hood of his cloak, the scars and the
anguish on his face made Jachen the last to recognise
him.
‘Gods of the dawn,’
Ralen breathed, sinking to his knees as though all strength had
fled his body.
And in the next
moment Jachen felt his heart lurch as the cold hand of terror
closed about it.
The man recoiled -
his timid movements so different to how he once was, but
unmistakable all the same.
‘My Lord,’ Jachen
said hoarsely, almost choking on the words as he dropped to one
knee.
Isak looked at him
and frowned, incomprehension cutting through his distress. ‘I don’t
know you,’ he mumbled before wincing and putting his hand to his
temple. ‘I can’t remember you.’
‘There are holes in
his mind,’ Mihn explained, putting a hand on Isak’s arm to reassure
him and draw him forward. ‘We had to tear out some of his
memories.’
‘Why?’ Jachen found
himself asking, fearing the answer he might receive.
‘Because there are
some things no man should remember,’ Morghien said, as though in a
trance, ‘some things no man could remember and remain a man.
Merciful Gods, are you brave or utterly mad?’
He shivered and in
unison Isak cringed slightly, screwing his eyes up tight before the
moment passed.
Jachen didn’t even
hear the question. He continued to gape, lost in the astonishing
sight of a man he knew without question to be dead. Mihn brought
Isak a little closer and now Jachen could see the scars on his face
and neck, the broken nose and ragged, curled lip, the jagged line
of his jaw and a fat band of twisted scarring across his
throat.
His lord had once
been handsome, for all the white-eye harshness, but no longer. If
the signs of torture continued all over his body, Jachen couldn’t
see how any man could have survived —
He felt his breath
catch. No man could have survived it; Isak had not survived it. He had died on the field
outside Byora, without these scars, or the broken look in his white
eyes.
‘How?’ he breathed at
last.
‘The hard way,’ Mihn
said grimly, ‘and not one taken lightly. The rest can wait for
later. Go see to your horses.’
Jachen didn’t move.
He was still lost in the pattern of pain etched onto a face he once
knew. Isak returned the look with difficulty.
‘I see you in the
hole in my mind,’ he whispered, his scarred forehead crumpled with
the effort. ‘I’m falling, but the war goes on.’
‘The war goes on?’
Jachen echoed.
Isak seemed to
straighten at that, and Jachen thought he caught a glimpse of his
former strength showing beneath the lost look on his
face.
‘The war goes on,’
Isak said, ‘shadows and lords, the war goes on.’
‘Isak, perhaps you
should rest?’ Mihn urged. He reached out and took Isak by the arm,
but the broken white-eye ignored him.
With crooked fingers
and awkward movements he pushed Mihn’s hand away. ‘No rest, not
yet,’ he said, his face contorted as though every thought caused
him pain. ‘Lost names and lost faces.’
‘You want me to
remind you of people?’ Mihn asked, looking hopeful.
Isak shook his head
and prodded Mihn. ‘I want you to tell me what it means,’ he said.
‘Tell me what it means to lose your memories, to lose who you are.’
‘Why?’
Isak prodded Mihn
again, pushing him a few steps backwards, and this time Mihn
glanced behind him to check how close he was to the
water.
‘The war must go on.
Someone told me once to use what I have inside me,’ Isak
said.
‘I don’t understand,
Isak.’
Isak’s face became a
ghastly smile. ‘What I have inside are holes - and they’ll be my
weapons now.’
King Emin walked
stiffly up the stairs, a jug of wine in one hand and a pair of
goblets in the other, a slender cigar jammed in the corner of his
mouth.
‘Another long day,’
he commented to Legana who was ascending silently behind him, her
progress slow and careful. She steadied herself with a hand on the
tower wall and her silver-headed cane in the other.
‘It appears even a
king must feel his age one of these days.’
Legana inclined her
head and walked past as Emin respectfully held open the door to his
breakfast room. It was a small room, and as sparsely furnished as
the rest of Camatayl Castle, but it served the king’s needs. This
was not a place for luxuries: almost every room now contained food
stores or cramped bunks for soldiers.
There was a fire
alight and chairs set for them on either side of it. Emin poured
drinks once Legana was settled. Over the past few weeks the pair,
both strong-willed and impatient with others, had found an
accommodation that suited them both. Their common understanding of
their extraordinary positions had turned into a cautious
friendship.
‘Have the priestesses
accepted your authority?’ Emin asked, tossing his hat aside and
easing down in his chair. He idly brushed dirt from his boot while
Legana wrote on her slate.
— They ask many questions.
‘Questions you cannot
yet answer?’ Emin nodded sadly. ‘As do my generals. They believe
absolutely in the might of Narkang’s armies; defeat in battle has
been a rare thing in my life, so they cannot understand my tactics
now.’
— The priestesses ask what the rest do not
dare.
‘What the substance
of your promises might be? It’s the nature of people. Offer them a
brighter future and they will cheer and shout your name, but sooner
or later they want to know the details. How did you think I ended
up in this mess?’ Emin said wryly.
— I promised only that a better future was
possible.
‘But you don’t have a
form in mind? I hadn’t taken you for a woman of
faith.’
— Of instinct, she corrected, even before I was joined to the Lady. I sense a future
will come. I hope it will come before a God tries to subsume
me.
Emin looked startled.
‘Is that even a possibility, Gods fighting each other for
supremacy? I know it used to happen in the Age of Myths, but now?
Piss and daemons; could a God like Larat decide there is enough of
the divine within you to take you as an Aspect?’
— I don’t wish to find out.
Emin gave a snort. ‘I
can imagine. So we both may be running out of time.’
— You don’t believe in your armies too?
‘Hah! I know my
strength well enough, and I also know my enemy. I’ve studied his
campaign thus far; Lord Styrax is inventive and bold, but he’s
lacking the arrogance one might hope for. His armies are
battle-hardened and replenished by the states he’s conquered; mine
are untested in ten years. He has made no significant mistakes, and
only committed himself to vulnerability when he is certain of
victory. This is not what one hopes for in an enemy. ’
He grimaced and took
a swig of wine, staring into the distance a moment before
continuing, ‘No - that’s not correct; he has made one mistake. His
allegiance is no longer to Lord Karkarn, it appears, or any of the
Gods, it’s to himself. However much they fear to walk the Land and
risk death, the Gods do not favour the greatest of their
creations.’
— Can you exploit it?
‘Would that I could,’
he said. ‘It’s a mistake I’ve also made. Even it were possible, I
don’t know how . . .’ He tailed off, then asked, ‘Is that what
Larat meant?’ There was a pause and the king straightened in his
chair a moment, then relaxed back down. ‘No, it doesn’t
fit.’
— What?
Emin looked at her,
unable to discern anything from the expression on her face.
Curiously, it was one of the reasons why he liked the fierce
Mortal-Aspect; she was beyond his abilities, both as a man and a
king. Not even the intellectuals he welcomed to the
Brotherhood-protected private club in Narkang could hide their
thoughts from his scrutiny. He enjoyed feeling in the presence of
an equal.
‘Did you not sense
it, a week or so after you first arrived?’
She hesitated, then
scribbled quickly on the slate. - Once I
dreamed of laughter, and a face that shifted, yours to a young
woman’s.
Emin nodded. ‘Larat
came to speak to me that morning, he warned me to heed the lessons
of the Great War.’
— One favours you then.
‘True, but direct
action is not his way - and having lost Death’s favour, none of the
rest will intervene. What do you know of the Crystal
Skulls?’
Legana gestured to
the blackened handprint on her throat and the cane she now walked
with. - I know one did
this.
‘But the nature of
them? I’ve read a number of Verliq’s works - the great man mentions
the Skulls several times, but he never studied them directly. Larat
mentioned something, and I wonder about the
significance.’
He fell silent again,
and Legana waited patiently. Allies they had become, but neither
expected undying loyalty of the other, and asking too much would
invite questions in return.
At last he went on,
‘He told me that the twelve Skulls corresponded to the Gods of the
Upper Circle, and the bearer of a Skull had the right to ask a
question of that God.’
Legana didn’t move
for a long while, her porcelain features crinkled in thought until
her emerald eyes flashed and she opened her mouth to speak before
remembering herself and writing on the slate.
— Why ask?
‘Why ask?’ Emin
echoed, realising she was prompting him just as he had done so
often with his pet intellectuals in Narkang, nudging their thoughts
down new paths, harnessing their knowledge to a particular
need.
‘Why ask? You ask to
secure an answer - expecting an answer. Larat said that some
knowledge should not be shared, that there were some questions that
might upset the balance of the Land.’
— He is a God.
‘And a tricky one at
that,’ Emin added, feeling a spark of insight; he was getting
close. ‘What he told me was no doubt correct, but not the entire
story. One asks a question to get an answer, to be so foolish as to
do that with a God of the Upper Circle - well, you would have to be
certain that an answer would be forthcoming. To have a God smite
you for impertinence is the outcome one would expect for idle
pestering, or seeking knowledge the Gods would not wish to
share.
‘So perhaps it isn’t
just a right, but a compulsion; something binding the God to answer
truthfully - perhaps even something stopping them from simply
reaching out and crushing the head of whoever has presumed to
question them.’
He took a long draw
on his cigar and cocked his head at Legana. ‘Covenant theory: the
idea that a contract of sorts must exist in magical actions - no
spell so powerful it does not have a flaw; no great incantation
that cannot be undone by something innocuous - and no dealing with
Gods or daemons that does not have rules to frame it.’
Legana nodded
encouragingly, and Emin, looking calmer, continued his exploration.
‘This right to ask a question of a God, it confers a right to get
an answer too. Perhaps that means there is a contract of sorts, and
they’re creatures of magic so they must be bound by the rules - and
if they’re bound in whatever way, that implies there’s some power
of compulsion over the God.’
Emin took a slow
breath, ordering his thoughts as he extended the principle further.
‘If Larat is willing to admit that much, no doubt the truth is
something deeper, something more fundamental to their relationship
with the Skulls - perhaps even the existence of the Gods
themselves. The Skulls are stores of power; the Gods are power
incarnate. Could they be the flip-side of the same
coin?’
— How does this help?
Emin topped up her
goblet with a smile. ‘Lord Styrax is not collecting them to secure
his rule or aid his conquest, those are just by-products. He wants
that power over each of the Gods of the Upper Circle, not to ask
questions but make demands.’ He shook his head. ‘As great and
long-lived as he is, the man is only mortal. One day he will die,
unless . . .’
King Emin puffed on
his cigar and looked at the icons hanging on the wall. The empty
cowl of Death occupied the centre; on His left was Kitar, Goddess
of Fertility, on His right, Karkarn, God of War.
He said slowly, ‘He
will die unless he becomes a God. Unless this peerless warrior asks
something of the Gods they cannot refuse.’