by Lloyd, Tom
‘Take pity on me, good traveller,’ the figure softly pleaded, ‘for I am blind and helpless.’
Morghien edged to a few paces short of the willow branches. The other figure was just within, close enough to part what divided them.
‘Are you hurt, friend?’ he asked in a halting voice. It appears that sounding nervous comes more easily than I’d realised.
‘Blind I am, lost I am,’ the other moaned. ‘Waylaid by thugs, taunted and beaten. They took my belongings and tossed them in the river, laughing like jackals. I am so cold, so hungry. I have been alone here for days – will you help me, good sir?’
‘What help do you need?’ Morghian asked, knowing the answer already.
The one behind the curtain reached out an imploring hand. It was pale and withered, age-spotted and filthy. Morghien got a better look at the watcher in the willows now; a frail old man with a ragged dark blanket wrapped around his body and over his head, one hand holding it in place at his sagging throat. His eyes were screwed up tight, his mouth hanging slightly open to reveal a blackened tongue and the broken stubs of teeth.
‘My possessions they threw away, my purse they took and emptied into the river. For cruelty’s sake, not theft. A dozen silver coins I had in that purse, earnings to last my family through the winter.’ The old man was pleading now, his voice hoarse and rasping.
‘In the river here?’
‘Not far from here,’ the old man insisted, ‘I did not dare stray far from the spot in case I could not find it again. I have been here for three days, praying the blessed Gods would send someone to my aid.’
Praying? That’s a nice touch, said the part of Morghien that was a much practised liar. ‘Certainly I’ll help you!’ he said with zeal.
‘Do we have a bargain?’
‘We do! The chains I will drag up Ghain’s slope will be plentiful enough, I’m sure. Let’s hope the Mercies are watching this evening.’
The old man bowed his head as though giving thanks for Morghien’s words. The wanderer saw his cracked lips twitch at the mention of Ghain, the mountainside of purgatory that led to Ghenna.
‘The Mercies see all,’ he intoned, ‘they will reward you, as will I when my silver coins are in my hand.’
Morghien slipped his pack from his back and set it at the river’s edge, within easy reach. The water was chilly after the day’s warmth when he stepped down into the river. Glancing upstream he saw the witch still sitting where he’d left her, puffing on her pipe and watching everything that went on.
He waded out into the centre of the river, the water reaching only up to his groin but flowing at a brisk pace. As he looked around at the water he could feel the old man watching with hungry intent. When Morghien turned back he saw the man kneeling on the bank, carefully within the trailing curtain of willow.
‘Somewhere about here?’ he called brightly. ‘Shall I start looking here?’
‘Yes, yes,’ the old man called urgently, ‘they must be near there!’
Morghien noisily splashed around him for a while, turning in a circle while a tiny trail of white mist bled into the water below him.
Dear me, like a toddler in the bath, he thought, careful to keep the smile that provoked out of the blind old man’s view.
‘I can’t see anything,’ he called helpfully and watched the old man wring his hands anxiously.
‘They are there,’ the old man croaked, ‘they must be there. Please look harder before the ghost hour is over!’
Getting worried now, aren’t you? The witch has kept folk away from here, but you can’t leave so easily. Morghien thought.
‘Aha!’ he shouted and bent down to grab something from the river bed. He held it high, fist closed tight around it, and gave a triumphant cheer.
‘And there’s another!’ he said and bending to retrieve the second. In his enthusiasm Morghien stood up and flung an arm out towards the old man, throwing a spray of water from his sleeve across the curtain of night-shrouded willow. The old man cringed back, almost falling.
‘Sorry!’ Morghien called with excessive cheerfulness as he waded back towards the bank. When he was a few paces away he tossed the fruits of his labours onto the grassy bank behind his pack.
The old man reached a hand up to the willow fronds, his fingers hovering in the act of pushing through the curtain. He went very still and then withdrew his hand back to the folds of his blanket.
‘These are not coins,’ the old man hissed.
‘Really? You sure?’
‘Of course. They are nothing more than stones,’ the old man snapped.
Morghien made a show of peering forward. ‘Oh, so it is.’ He gave a disappointed sigh. ‘It is a white stone,’ he said in mitigation, ‘it looked silver in the river.’
‘It has a hole in!’
‘So it does. Ah well, better try again I suppose.’
Morghien waded back to the middle of the river and started to walk in slow circles, staring intently down through the water. Three more times he gave a small cheer and reached down to grab something, frowning at the contents of his hand each time when he straightened up.
‘They’re just stones,’ he called out for the old man’s benefit, holding one up. ‘Look this one’s got a hole in too!’
‘I do not care for stones,’ came the old man’s susurrus voice from the gloom of the willows. ‘Fetch me my coins!’
‘Temper, temper,’ Morghien replied, ignoring the angry sound that provoked. He resumed his search and three more times went to grab at something in the water. After the third he waded part of the way back to the bank and tossed up six more stones onto the bank.
‘More stones, I’m afraid.’
The old man screeched in fury. ‘The coins are there, I can sense them. You are a fool if you cannot find them – my patience for stones is at an end!’
‘Well, there’s no need to be rude,’ Morghien said in a hurt voice. ‘I’m working on a song; do you want to hear it while I search?’ he asked suddenly. ‘It’s very good.’
‘Enough of your stupidity!’ the old man howled. ‘Find me the coins or I swear by the gates of Jaishen I shall tear the flesh from your bones and suck the marrow from your bones.’
Morghien took a step back. ‘Fair enough, point taken – more looking, less talking,’ he said, looking back down at the water. ‘Found one!’
He threw forward something that glittered in the dying light, a silver coin. Morghien watched the old man’s head rise and fall, following the arc as it fell with the stones he’d previously thrown. At last the old man hopped out from within the willow’s boundary and reached out to grab the coin. His bent back gave the blanket a lumpy, broken look and the effort seemed to make him snuffle and gasp.
‘I once knew a man who lived under a willow,’ Morghien sang out without warning, causing the old man to jerk his head up. ‘That’s how the song starts.’
‘This is not one of the coins I seek,’ the old man snarled.
He opened his eyes and they shone yellow in the fading light. The blanket covering him fell away and revealed wide scales that tapered to a point covering his head. When he opened his mouth again it revealed rows of sharp pointed teeth and a long bifurcated tongue.
Morghien made a dismissive gesture with his hand and continued. ‘I once knew a man who lived under a willow, his eyes were empty and his teeth broke low.’
The old man gave a feral bark and his jaw distended, jerking forward once, then twice, until it resembled the muzzle of a dog. Pale, lifeless hands became even more clawed and turned in, but now looked stubby and reptilian.
‘You could have saved yourself, but you bargained and then played the fool,’ the daemon declared in a low snarl. ‘For that I will eat your soul!’
‘Coins he wanted, help he prayed for,’ Morghien continued with a theatrical flourish, oblivious to what was happening on the river bank. ‘I took his coins and him a fool for. A circle of stones I made, the trap sprung was not one he laid.’
> The daemon hissed in fury and flexed his talons.
‘Oh quiet, you scaly old wretch!’ Morghien said irritably, ‘you can’t cross water so you can stay there hissing all damn night for all I care.’
‘You cannot stay in the water, mortal. You will not deny me my prize, not now a bargain has been made.’
‘Really? You should learn to listen, my friend.’
Morghien waded towards the daemon, jingling a handful of tarnished coins and offering them forward for the daemon to see. The act enraged the daemon further, but as much as it slashed and scraped wildly at the air they both knew it couldn’t enter the river.
Reaching the bank, Morghien held the fistful of coins up and waved them just out of the daemon’s reach.
‘Dead man’s coins, aren’t they?’ he demanded. ‘Coins put in the lips of dead sinners while they’re laid out. Some part o’ the soul is tied to the coin, staying cool in the water to ease whatever torment awaits them.’
‘They will not escape their fate,’ spat the daemon, ‘no witch’s charm can deny it.’
Morghien smiled. ‘Their last judgement ain’t mine to pronounce, but I see no reason to let the lowest of Ghenna’s creatures hold these souls as currency.’
‘All souls are currency,’ the daemon snarled, ‘and yours will join them as soon as you leave this water.’
‘Sorry, ugly, but I’m not the fool I look,’ Morghien said with a smile. He pointed down at the daemon’s feet. ‘That’s a circle of stones you’re standing in. My magic may not be up to much, but it’s enough to seal one of those for the night.’
The daemon screamed and raged at the barrier containing it, but to no avail. As hard as it thrashed it could do nothing to break free. Morghien smiled and reached one hand out over the water. A ghostly white arm rose up from the surface and deposited a handful more coins in his palm before contentedly drifting back down.
‘One of the useful things about being possessed by an Aspect of Vasle,’ Morghien continued, ‘is it’s not hard finding stuff in water. These’ll be coming with me – I can always make a home for another few spirits. I don’t think the witches of these parts’ll be leaving coins in this stretch of river ever again.’
He stowed the coins in a pocket and dragged his pack from the bank, resting it on one shoulder to keep it well clear of the water he stood in. In the advancing dark he could make out little detail of the daemon beyond its glowing yellow eyes, but it was enough to see it knew when it was beaten.
‘As for the stones binding you, the witch’ll fetch them in the morning; once the dawn’s light has made that scabby little body of yours melt like mist.’ He gave the daemon a cheery wave and started making his way towards the opposite bank.
‘Come dusk tomorrow,’ Morghien called over his shoulder, ‘those stones’ll be strung on a chain and hung from a bridge. Since your kind can’t cross water and the witch has got all the folk round here properly under her thumb, you’ll have to wait for the bridge to collapse or the river to run dry before you’re released. Either way, enjoy your time in the sun.’
He reached the other side and hauled himself out of the water with a groan. Once on the bank Morghien shook himself like a dog to get the worst of the water off before giving the daemon a mocking bow. Along the far bank he walked, heading for the village for a beer well-earned, whistling merrily all the way. The daemon could only howl.
A MAN FROM THISTLEDELL
Marshal Calath leaned forward in his seat and idly scratched his outstretched leg. It was a hindrance at the best of the times, but when the wind rushed down the chimney and rain thrashed at the window, the malformed limb caused him even greater discomfort. His host, Magistrate Derran, noticed the movement and raised an eyebrow. Calath waved the unspoken question away, brushing the trouser down and returning his hand to his lap.
A goblet of brandy nestled there while wisps of cigar smoke drifted past his face. Calath resumed his previous position, head titled to rest slightly against the high side of his armchair, half-looking into the blazing fire but focused on nothing. There was a sprawl of rugs underfoot, expensive weaves that covered the wood-tiled floor and looked bright and warm in the light of the room’s three candelabras.
This snug was considerably less impressive than the formal elegance of the rest of the manor, but a welcome place to while away the last hours of the evening. After a cold day and a fine meal, Calath had even partaken in a small cigar himself as suitable accompaniment to the brandy, much to his friend’s approval.
‘I thought we might make to join the hunt over at Alscap Hall tomorrow,’ said Magistrate Derran, every syllable rounded with hearty vigour.
Calath looked up through fragile eyes, his nervous features cautiously approaching a laugh until he realised the man was serious. ‘Derran, somehow I think my leg will scarcely have healed by then.’
The plump magistrate stared down at Calath’s leg through the warm confusion of brandy, then realisation caught hold and he threw back his head in laughter.
‘Hah! Too true my friend, but I hardly would have suggested riding with the hunt. What a fine pair we’d make; yourself with that leg caught in the stirrups and me fretting about breaking the back of the poor beast I was riding!’
The marshal smiled weakly at the idea. For all the humour Ves Derran found in it, Calath could only imagine the prickling horror of being once more the comical centrepiece. He reached absently down to stroke the wolfhound dozing between their two chairs. The rough mess of grey fur shifted slightly at his touch, but the attention soon proved welcome and the dog leaned into Calath’s thin fingers as he gently scratched the creature’s flank.
‘No, my friend, I meant that we attend in a vastly more civilised capacity. Count Alscap is well known for his hospitality; truly I believe he will take offence if I do not present such an excellent guest for his pleasure.’
‘Now Derran, you know how I am not that sort of man . . .’ Calath began before a flurry of gestures and friendly heckles drowned out his soft protestations.
‘Bah! None of that, quiet you old woman! Alscap is a fine man, perfectly without the pretensions you work so hard to avoid. I tell you, you will more than enjoy yourself there. I know what you city folk think of us – simple and insular to name a few of the words I’ve heard used – but some out here are the very best of humanity. And that brings me to my principal reason for taking you there. There is a certain young lady—’
‘Derran, please! I had thought better of you,’ exclaimed Calath, stiffening his spine to stare down his portly companion. ‘I hoped to spend my time here in blissful absence of such harpings.’
‘Ah my dear Calath, how could I attempt to imitate such a fine tyrant as your mother? My hands tremble to even contemplate the prospect.’
The magistrate who made such great levity of threats and curses bestowed from the dock, held up his meaty paws and shook them with great pantomime, but it failed to raise a smile. ‘I demand nothing, nor will I suggest solitary walks and the like as I’ve heard done in the past. I claim no knowledge or ability in arranging the annals of romance. Surely my wife must have regaled you half-a-dozen times with my bungling attempts to woe her!’
Calath regarded his friend coldly as the magistrate chuckled at the memory, but was soon won over by the infectious noise. Once more the shy, bookish marshal felt great pangs of envy for his extravagant, expansive friend. The man took such magnificent delight in life and the Land around him, it was impossible to dislike him or remain angry in his presence for long.
Indeed, Ves Derran was renowned as a man incapable of retaining mere acquaintances. The regular traffic of callers and invitations testified to the fact that if you didn’t consider the magistrate a friend, you couldn’t have met him outside court. There were more than a few who bore him a grudge, for he was a terror for truth and protocol in his own domain, but five minutes at some gathering or another was easily enough time to secure an invitation to dinner, and reason to accept.
&nb
sp; By consequence, it had always mystified the reticent Calath quite why Derran possessed such a fondness for him – but possess it he did, like a blazing torch of goodness that quite shamed those who looked down on the crippled academic. It was for this buoying reason Calath had accepted the open invitation when his health took a turn for the worse. His physician had prescribed country air, rest and companionship, and the timing had proved fortuitous. Derran had been delighted at the prospect, having been facing a month alone as his wife went to assist the wedding preparations of an orphaned niece.
‘As I was about to say,’ continued Derran, wagging a finger in mock admonishment, ‘I feel sure there will be a lady there who will make the onerous task bearable. She is the daughter of a knight whose brother is no doubt known to you from Narkang—’
Calath raised a hand. ‘Please, save me the credentials. You know I’d rather keep my distance from political families.’
Oh, I know what you’re after,’ replied his friend with a twinkling eye, ignoring the outraged look he received, ‘but I was merely stating that any exacting parent would approve. Your mother could hardly object to the niece of the king’s first minister, Count Antern, whether or not you like the man yourself. The woman herself is a delightful creature, both in looks and demeanour—’
‘And I have heard that said before,’ Calath broke in. ‘I know well enough that a lady’s demeanour is a measure of her docile stupidity.’
‘And I swear I shall rap you about the ears with my stick if you interrupt again!’ bellowed Derran in exasperation, his ears turning a curious purple by the force of his cry. Calath shrank back in his chair; too well acquainted with his friend to fear the man, but now able to believe the reports of how he ruled his court.
‘Is that the end of your interruptions?’ Derran barked imperiously. ‘Yes? Excellent. As I was saying, she is a delightful creature; generous in spirit and deed, in addition to the intellect the Gods have granted her.’