The Ragged Man Part 14

'Might I suggest you pay your social calls on someone with a little less to do? I have guests I must speak to.'

'Ah yes, the intriguing Legana, that shadow of herself. One of many interesting new flavours to this Land. Still, when things get desperate and down to the bone I find it is ancient methods that serve us best.'

Emin's eyes narrowed, sensing the significance of what he was being told, without understanding it. 'The ancient isn't really my domain; I leave that to others.'

The G.o.d wearing his sister's face smiled indulgently. 'Time you paid it a little more attention. This kingdom of yours isn't what we planned for humanity, but some of us appreciate that change comes to all things. Mild impieties and direct threats to the greatest of G.o.ds aside, it stands as a better future for the Land than others.'

'Please, enough of the flattery,' Emin said. 'My queen would be upset if I started getting a high opinion of myself.'

'I can remind you of your inadequacies easily enough,' Larat said, 'but I see no profit in doing so at present.'

Larat leaned forward and put one elbow on the table, resting her chin on one hand with a fluid motion that no mortal beyond a Harlequin could achieve.

Emin recognised the pose, from the painting of Gennay, but the gesture only hardened his resolve.

'The Farlan are in chaos,' Larat continued, 'something that will only increase in the years to come. Lord Styrax is building himself an empire and collecting artefacts powerful enough to kill G.o.ds. It is only a matter of time before he crosses your borders.'

'That I know. I'm already making preparations.'

'But have you yet realised why he is collecting these artefacts?'

'I don't know enough about them to deduce that.'

Larat's young face was now stern and serious. 'The Skulls are objects from the dawn of time. Aryn Bwr found them and reforged them to their present form, but they are far older, and the last king's changes were not extensive, however ingenious.'

'But what is their significance? Did Aryn Bwr upset the balance of the Land by reforging them?'

'In unison there is very little they cannot do. It is no coincidence that they number twelve.'

'Twelve?' Emin hesitated. 'The Upper Circle of the Pantheon? That little detail has been omitted from every scripture I've ever read. And does it go further than that? Are you aligned to a specific Skull, bound to it, even?'

'The bearer of each is permitted to ask a question of the one aligned to it. Some knowledge should not be shared - the very act would would upset the balance of the Land.' upset the balance of the Land.'

'I don't understand what you are telling me, what you're asking of me.'

'There are forces in this Land that would like the balance to be upset, things to come undone.'

'Who? The Vukotic family?'

'Among others. What I am telling you is to survive - to keep the Land a place where the G.o.ds are still welcome. It is the natural order of things; without it you will find this world far less of a paradise than it is at present.

'Lord Styrax was a mistake of ours - when Aryn Bwr's soul did not find its way to Ghenna we knew he had prepared some sort of contingency plan.'

'If you're so concerned,' Emin broke in, 'why not take a stand? d.a.m.ned by Death or not, I'm not as powerful as a G.o.d of the Upper Circle. And somehow I suspect you're not here to announce the G.o.ds will march with me against Lord Styrax.'

Emin felt the room grow cold as Larat stiffened in her seat. 'We have learned that lesson already.'

'To let others do the killing for you?'

'To not allow others to murder the divine,' Larat said, a warning look in her eyes. 'One of our kin has already died in this war; we do not intend others to run that risk.'

'You would run such risks to avoid even one of your kin dying? This is a war you could win - if you were willing to accept losses.'

'Losses are unacceptable,' Larat snapped, 'as are too many of the Upper Circle being weakened. None of our own will ally against the Upper Circle, but do not think we are so united that the victors in any war wouldn't risk being turned on by their own kind. The majority rule of the Upper Circle prevents lesser G.o.ds falling like jackals upon each other, but with losses - or more weakened, as Ilit was at the Last Battle - a new war might be sparked.'

Emin was silent a while as he tried to digest what Larat had told him. These were truths unacknowledged in the mortal Land. Just as kings kept secrets from their own people, some things even a king should not know too much about. The fact that a G.o.d was sharing secrets was a worrying development.

The king nodded, having to clear his throat before he could speak. 'I understand - it is safer to use mortals than to walk the Land and become a target for your own kind - and daemons too, perhaps?'

So completely was his last comment ignored that Emin guessed he had scored a hit.

'Kastan Styrax was intended to be the Saviour of the tribes of man, the leader to defeat Aryn Bwr when he returned. Our mistake was to make the man too powerful, too skilled, and he turned against us.' For a moment Larat's expression fell blank, further reminding Emin that the G.o.d only wore his sister's image. Gennay had been an animated, pa.s.sionate girl. Her face had never been so blank until death.

'Aryn Bwr was only defeated when we forced a decisive confrontation; until then he had avoided large-scale battle because he knew Death and Karkarn in particular were too powerful for him. Follow his example; history's lessons should be learned well.'

Larat stood. 'And now it is time for you to wake up,' the G.o.d said with a snap of the fingers.

Emin's head jerked up from the table. He looked around, bleary-eyed and dizzy, his senses trying to resolve the conflict as he moved into a position he thought he was already occupying. He was at the small table where Daratin's porridge was still cooling, a waxy film on its surface. He pushed himself to his feet, groaning at a building ache in his head. It felt like he had a hangover as bad as any he remembered, a crown of thorns within his skull that scratched and sc.r.a.ped.

'd.a.m.n G.o.ds,' he muttered, heading for his bedroom to find appropriate clothes for the rest of the castle, 'like frisky old spinsters. The more you run from them, the more interested they are in you.'

She waited all day, barely moving from her concealed hollow, while the Elves fussed and prepared at the stream below. Unused to feelings of any kind, the Wither Queen found time to savour what ran through her now: a strange sense of antic.i.p.ation and excitement, coupled with an innate apprehension.

They are inventive, these mortals. How their hatred has driven them!

The small camp had been at the stream for weeks preparing the ground, but now a team of slaves had arrived and were readying the ground upstream for the final stage. It was fascinating - and horrifying. When the Wither Queen had come across the camp, deep in the empty forest and far from prying Farlan eyes, she had been about to scour it clean when her spirits had noticed a strange shrine.

She had probed the ground with infinite patience and care, careful to avoid the notice of the two mages who were there so she could watch them at her leisure. They would all die soon enough, that was beyond doubt, but their actions had intrigued her. The shrine had awakened some sense of curiosity she had not known she possessed. That flicker had grown stronger when she found a second shrine not far downstream.

Two shrines? But Elves do not pray.

The entire race had been cursed, cast out after the Great War, so what were they doing playing with shrines? She sent her darting spirits out to watch and listen, before some innocuous comment had allowed the truth to flower in her mind.

They were farming.

Astonis.h.i.+ngly - born of desperation, and a hunger for any small measure of revenge - the Elves were farming G.o.ds.

The Wither Queen fought to control the screaming rage inside her when she realised, but it hadn't taken long for her fury to be eclipsed by something else: the desire for power, the recognition of an opportunity there for the taking.

The spirits the mages had enslaved were, in some fas.h.i.+on, local G.o.ds. The difference was power, the quintessence of G.o.dhood: they were made of magic, and changed by it, moulded by the elements they were a.s.sociated with and the wors.h.i.+p they received.

Like some insects had different stages of growth which bore no resemblance to the others, except at their core, so the spirits the Elves had found were unlike the G.o.ds . . . they were at an early stage, and they could be controlled, and cultivated, and developed into weapons.

She could not imagine how many such shrines there might be hidden in the forest. Their prophets must have given them warning of Aryn Bwr's impending rebirth, and while the Elven race was broken and scattered, some semblance of order must have remained for them to maintain their systems of n.o.bility and slavery.

Her lips widened into a sliver of a smile at the thought of this practice extended throughout the Great Forest. Little shrines beside each river, lake, hill or copse - anywhere spirits might gather. It was remarkably simple: the mage's acolytes would find a likely spot and prepare the ground, somewhere they had fished, or simply been so thirsty they were sufficiently appreciative of the water to give thanks. They built a small shrine of stones and left an offering. That would be enough to gather the wandering, formless spirits found throughout the Land, restlessly searching for purpose, for belief, for praise.

While keeping the mages well away the prayers would continue, the offerings too, until one spirit had latched onto the shrine and made the place its home. A shape would start to develop, a presence or image, the more wors.h.i.+p that took place. This stream had two shrines with different characteristics: the upper stretch was deep and fast and the lower was shallower and slower, so two spirits could be attracted to a relatively small stretch of water.

Given time the two would come into conflict and one would be absorbed by the victor; the Wither Queen knew that all too well. When a G.o.d reached a certain power, it was impossible to entirely be subsumed by another G.o.d - that was how Aspects were created: linked and subservient, but able to retain some measure of the self. A G.o.d strove for power, it was part of their very being, and it might well be that several competing spirits had come across the shrine and tried to make some connection with the acolyte before the strongest won out.

The Wither Queen watched the slaves. They had a great pile of sacks filled with earth and boulders and they were waiting for the order to begin. She thought it might happen during twilight, when the G.o.ds withdrew slightly from the Land; a basic precaution whenever the work was heretical. As the sun dropped the Wither Queen waited with a growing hunger, determined to gather these two more spirits to her. She had already taken more than a score - every Elven mage she had encountered had possessed at least one - and while they were all very weak, they would grow stronger as she did.

At last the sun began to fall below the horizon and with a clipped command the slaves were set to work damming the stream. They worked quickly, fast enough to panic the spirits inhabiting each stretch. The Wither Queen could imagine them experiencing a new sensation: fear at the prospect of being just a voice on the wind again. They would reach out in whatever direction they could, begging their new followers for help as the flow of water began to dwindle. By some great fortune their followers were mages too, barely children, but with a flicker of talent that was enough to make it an option to those with none.

As the gloaming descended the Wither Queen sensed movement, a sparkle of life and energies. The spirit from the upper section had grown strong enough to have a corporeal self and now it appeared like a ghost before the kneeling acolyte: the outline of a child with wild flowing hair, looking around at the camp but unable to see the others waiting on its fringes. After a while it entered the acolyte and not long after the weaker spirit did the same, but with less hesitation. Once that was done, the inhabited acolyte walked away from the stream while the guards moved in to destroy the shrines, leaving the spirits with no place to return to.

They had started to cart away the stones to dump in the forest when the Wither Queen rose from her hiding place. Her own slaves, some like pale pinp.r.i.c.ks of light, the strongest scampering like spectral rats, had encircled the camp by the time she was spotted and the alarm raised. The mages put up a fight, but it was a poor one. Every touch brought their twisted, malformed bodies out in boils and blisters, plague spreading so fast that the last few cut their own throats rather than suffer such horrors.

She didn't care what they did, as long as they were dead. Only the mages mattered; the imperative to scour the forest of Elves was fading from her mind and she felt Lord Isak's compulsion to murder them all gradually wither. She would still do so because of what she was, but once her strength grew beyond a certain point she would be able to kill any mortal, bargain or no bargain. They wors.h.i.+pped her in Lomin, and at the two other shrines set up for that purpose, but it was a feeble thing now that the boy was dead. No bargain lasted beyond death and that meant it would not bind her as soon as wors.h.i.+ppers stopped going to the temples.

Once her bargain was broken, then ... then the more she killed, the more they would flock to praise her - the more they would beg her to spare them. The Wither Queen tasted the fear on the air and smiled. Her time was coming.

CHAPTER 11.

Mihn felt that familiar ache of guilt as he set the bowl of food on the bed near Isak's head. It was irrational, he knew, but seeing his friend so changed, his body so battered and abused, was hard to bear. No part of him had been spared; even his eyeb.a.l.l.s bore signs of torture. It was not hard to see why the white-eye had retreated deep into himself: the only way to save what sc.r.a.p of sanity he could.

The daemons had torn and ripped and burned and shredded his flesh, endlessly, feeding on the fear and pain from every new attack - small wonder Isak had cringed when Mihn had sharpened a knife a few days back. He was more careful now, not to do anything that might evoke memories best forgotten.

The witch had delved into Isak's mind to find the blackest knots of horror, and had used her magic to rip them free - but she couldn't get them all. Only the worst had been taken, the memories that could not remain if Isak was ever to speak again, rather than spend any waking minutes shrieking aloud, his sleeping moments sobbing as he relived each horror in his nightmares. Other memories might be lost alongside them; they did not know, but it was a risk they had to take.

Mihn saw Isak's nostrils flare slightly at the scent of food: that faint recognition hadn't yet gone so far as to prompt Isak to action, but it was a start. The puppy lying outstretched next to Isak was more receptive: he stirred and looked up. Mihn wasn't sure what sort of dog it was - though young, it showed the promise of powerful body and legs, and he guessed it was bred for guarding, maybe even fighting, rather than hunting. Right now it tired easily, growing too fast to be boisterous for long, but that would change soon.

The dog yawned wide, its tongue lolling, and thumped its tail against Isak's thigh. It licked Mihn's wrist and started to move towards the bowl, but Mihn moved it out of the puppy's reach and opened Isak's s.h.i.+rt to check on his injuries. He gently removed the witch's poultices, wiped the skin clean and examined the scabs underneath. There was no sign of infection, and the deep cuts were closing nicely - though Mihn had expected Isak to heal unnaturally quickly, he was still a little surprised to see even the broken skull was knitting together well, and where the skin had been ripped away new tissue was growing.

He shuddered. Even with that degree of healing, the injuries were so wide-ranging that from some angles it was almost impossible to recognise the youth he'd first met. The shape of Isak's head had changed with those depressions; patches of scalp had been cut away, along with chunks of his ears. Half his teeth were missing, or had subsequently fallen out, and the line of his jaw indicated at least two breaks . . . the litany of damage continued all over his body and Mihn guessed it was only the hours they had spent escaping Ghenna that had allowed the healing to start before they reached the Land.

The puppy gave an excited squeak and began stalking Isak's bowl. Mihn sat back, to watch Isak and see whether he would notice or react. Isak remained staring into s.p.a.ce, unfocused, but as the puppy wriggled its way towards the bowl he did at last move an arm to impede it.

Mihn held his breath, hoping this was not coincidence. The puppy tried to squirm out from under Isak's arm and he twisted his body a little - maybe not properly, as if he had noticed the prospective thief, but enough to s.h.i.+eld his food.

'Good,' Mihn said lightly, 'you are going to have to keep an eye on that dog, or he'll snaffle every meal I make the moment your back is turned.'

Isak didn't respond, but Mihn hadn't expected him to. His goal was to keep talking normally to Isak, waiting for the words to filter in and remind him of human interaction; he knew it would work eventually.

'Come on, you,' he said to the puppy, who gave an excited little bark. Mihn scooped up the dog up and set him on the ground. The bowl of sc.r.a.ps was devoured in half a minute and once it had finished Mihn played with the puppy, all the while keeping one eye on Isak.

After a while Mihn noticed Isak beginning to move - he was feeling around himself on the bed. His eyes remained unfocused as he stared at the flames in the stove, but his hand was definitely moving with some purpose, albeit in an uncertain, jerky manner, as though he was searching for the puppy. Mihn was sure he had grown used to have it sleeping pressed up against his body; missing its presence was a good step forward . . .

Eventually Isak's searching fingers reached the soup and ended up planted firmly in the bowl. Mihn felt a flicker of disappointment. The soup wasn't hot enough to scald, but it wasn't the result he had hoped for. As he watched, Isak slowly withdrew his fingers and, oblivious to the soup dripping onto his blanket, held them up in front of his face, as though trying to work out what to do with them. Tentatively, he brought the fingers up to his mouth and pressed them to his lips.

Mihn scarcely dared breathe as Isak licked the soup from his fingers. For the first time, his gaze left the flames and he looked at the bowl. He still looked glazed, but there were signs of effort in Isak's face, a small spark of animation that gave Mihn heart.

'That's it, Isak, the bowl is just there if you want to eat,' he called softly, rising and going to the bed. He gently guided Isak's hand to the bowl and cupped his fingers around it before helping him to draw it towards his face. Isak was still lying on his side. When the edge of the wooden bowl b.u.mped against his lips his tongue flicked out, as though expecting more soup.

'Just lift yourself up and drink from the bowl,' Mihn encouraged him.

Whether or not Isak heard the words, he did start to move, turning his body until he was almost face-down in the bowl. He started lapping awkwardly at the soup like a dog.

'Well, that is not ideal,' Mihn continued brightly, 'but however you want to start, my Lord. A week with a puppy has taught you something at least - and your table manners were never that impressive anyway.'

Isak positioned his elbows more comfortably under his body and continued to lap at the soup, hands curled protectively around the bowl until it was all finished. Mihn replaced it with the one he had been about to eat himself, and that too was devoured.

'That is more than you have eaten since' - he hesitated for a moment - 'since you came back. How about we try for the privy tonight as well? Wiping you down is not my favourite activity.'

Isak was wearing only a long, open-fronted robe and a knotted piece of cloth that served as a nappy more than preserving his dignity. Mihn's experience with babies was extremely limited, but he a.s.sumed they had no regard for when they messed themselves. Luckily, the lessons of childhood were still embedded somewhere in Isak's mind, and he was exhibiting a little more control than a baby. Mihn had resorted to treating white-eye and dog alike: after eating, the two of them were taken outside. It had taken some persistence to get Isak standing up so Mihn could lead him outside, but the alternative was much less palatable to contemplate.

This evening the lake was hushed and still, with few birds disturbing the silence. Mihn looked around as the puppy bounced forward, holding its nose high as it suddenly caught a scent. He felt a little disquieted; it was early for such quiet, but as he turned he caught sight of movement on the water's surface.

With Isak in tow he walked down to the water's edge and peered through the faint moonlit mist. As his eyes adjusted he saw two specks of pale light drifting just above the still surface, and as he watched, one suddenly darted across the other, causing it to hop up in the air. Eventually he realised they were not specks of light, but white creatures catching the moonlight.

'Moondancers,' he whispered to Isak.

The white-eye was standing very still and tense, looking out over the water with his arms wrapped about himself and his body stooped, as though he was cold - though his skin was hot to the touch, as though some part of him resided still in Ghenna and warmed him by it.

Moondancers were not ghosts or spirits, but a rare bird that lived on water. Mihn had found a nest once; they were tiny little things with large webbed feet that allowed them to move across the water's surface as they hunted insects. He smiled as he recalled how, in the daylight, they had been an unimpressive dull grey, but here in the moonlight their feathers caught the light, s.h.i.+mmering weirdly - Mihn's moment of wonder was abruptly cut off as something black rose up from the surface and grabbed one of the moondancers, dragging it under the water with a loud splash. Mihn frowned. He hadn't realised there was a pike in the lake, or any other sort of predator that would hunt like that. The remaining moondancer had already disappeared into the rushes and a heartbeat later the lake surface was once again as still as gla.s.s.

As he scanned the water to see if there was any further sign of movement a low growl came from beside him - not the puppy, it was too deep. When he turned, Isak was still hunched over, with one arm pulled into his chest, but he had lowered his right arm and his hand was balled into a fist. A second splash came from the lake, and the moonlight caught a ring of ripples out on the water, a little closer this time.

Isak gave another growl, his damaged throat giving it an unearthly quality, and Mihn jumped as a light suddenly shone from beside him: Eolis had appeared from thin air in Isak's hand, as though they were still in Ghenna. The sword was s.h.i.+ning alarmingly brightly in the moonlight, invitation as much as threat.

Isak did not appear to have noticed its appearance, but he was more alert, poised as though expecting to be attacked. The puppy at his feet was silent, looking at the lake with an air of expectation.

'Time to go back inside,' Mihn said firmly. 'Isak, back into the house.' He tried to push the white-eye in the right direction, and after a few moments Isak allowed himself to be shoved back inside the house, the puppy close beside him. Mihn stood at the threshold and looked back at the lake. There were more ripples on the surface now, and they were barely ten yards from the sh.o.r.e. Quickly he kicked off his boots and shrugged off his coat before picking up the steel-shod staff beside the door. Thus armed he shut the door behind him and stood on one side, keeping in the shadows.

Mihn watched as the ripples drifted closer. He checked the tattoos on his hands in the moonlight, to rea.s.sure 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 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 G.o.ds and forged the weapons that had killed many of the Pantheon. No mortal's d.a.m.nation had been more a.s.sured 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 sc.r.a.ps 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.