by Tom Lloyd
Isak realised that he was trembling. The whole subject of being a failure was a little close to his heart. ‘Think it over. We’ll be back in the saddle soon, but you have until we leave Nerlos Fortress to make up your mind. After that, we’ll be outside Farlan territory. You can decide to become a ranger, or an assassin or a court jester, or whatever you wish, but if you want purpose in your life, here it is, for the taking.’
CHAPTER 24
As the first cold rays of dawn reached out over the Land, a figure made his way on to a deserted stretch of battlements on the south-western corner of Nerlos Fortress. He was dressed only in a rough black shirt and billowing trousers, hardly suitable for the cool morning, but as he padded on to the corner-platform between two stretches of walkway he appeared unperturbed by either the wind or the cold stone against his bare feet.
He knelt, facing the sun as it crept up towards the cloud that covered most of the sky, then bowed and, eyes half-closed, whispered a mantra. The words drifted away on the wind as he repeated the bow and the prayer ten more times, his voice smooth, almost hypnotic.
He sat back on his heels and beamed contentedly at the sunrise for a few minutes, then closed his eyes again and stretched out his right leg, laying it flat against the stone pointing north, then extended his left leg to the south, all with apparent ease. More words slipped through his lips, less formal, perhaps, but still full of reverence, as he leaned forward and placed his hands against the stone floor, tensing slightly, and eased his weight on to his palms. His legs wavered for a moment as he found his body’s centre of balance, then he drew them together, pointing straight up.
He straightened his arms and moved his weight on to one hand, twisting so he was facing down the empty walkway. In times of peace there was only a single lookout on the highest tower and no one else had risen with the dawn. He bent his body into a crescent shape, then Propelled his body around and back up to a standing position.
And what was that?’ The voice made Mihn pause and he peered into the darkened doorway suspiciously until Isak stepped out into the crisp sunlight.
‘I was praying.’
Isak raised an eyebrow. ‘Praying? I’ve never seen a priest do that.’
‘You don’t need to be a priest to pray, my Lord. Every child should be taught the devotionals to each of the Upper Circle.’
‘No doubt they should - I can probably even remember some of them - but what was that last bit? If everyone had to do that at temple I might have gone more often.’ Isak’s laughter died when he saw Mihn’s grave expression.
‘That was a personal prayer, something we were taught in our tribe. It’s different for each person, a way of giving thanks for something you enjoy, or a particular ability-‘
‘So I should be killing someone each morning? That’s all they made me good for.’ Isak immediately regretted snapping, but Mihn’s calm was not disrupted.
‘Not at all. I believe you have several things to be grateful for: your strength, your health, your position. And there are your gifts-‘
‘Fine, I understand, just stop preaching. If you’ve decided to stay and piously whine at me as your life’s calling, I take everything back,’ Isak shifted uncomfortably. It-hadn’t even occurred to him to say a prayer of thanks for his gifts. There had been little chance when Nartis was invading his dreams, and then he’d got caught up in his new life… one had to hope that the Gods weren’t like people. Isak had seen family feuds grow out of those feast days where gifts were traditional. The idea of appearing ungrateful to the God of Storms was not appealing.
Mihn broke into his reverie. Then I will try not to piously whine at you every morning - but yes, I have decided to stay with you. For a man whose first recourse is violence, you can be eloquent at times. The casual listener might believe you had given the subject some thought.’
Isak grinned. ‘If you’ve quite finished, you can go and fetch me some jugs of water.’
Mihn narrowed his eyes. For all of his power, Isak was still a young man, and one who’d rarely had a chance to enjoy himself at that. ‘Some might think Carel’s observation that he found it hard to wake up early these days was not intended as a hint.’
‘I know, but they’re the sort of people who pray every morning. I on the other hand, have no morals - by divine mandate. And who am I to defy the will of the Gods?’ Mihn sighed. ‘Who indeed?’
********
Jeil moved swiftly through the trees, his bow held ready. Over the rushing sound of the river nearby he heard a faint birdcall, the short double-trill of a goldcrest, and he stopped to crouch behind an ancient hawthorn. Borl’s mimicry of birdcalls was brilliant, one of the reasons he had been picked to escort Isak to Narkang. It was the perfect way to keep his companions informed of enemy movements without giving himself away, and it meant Jeil, who was faster, could hunt them down from his calls.
This was the first person they had encountered since disembarking from the riverboat they had used to travel the border between Tor Milist and Scree towards Helrect. It was an obvious ambush point, as only coracles could traverse this section of the river, and they were no use for transporting horses.
The goldcrest trilled again and Jeil tensed, ready to step out, when a second call sounded from somewhere up ahead. He swore silently: either Borl’s mimicry was too good and had attracted a real bird, or their prey had caught on. Jeil hunkered down and kept completely still, listening hard. The Land was unnaturally quiet - until a piercing whistle broke the stillness, no bird sound, this, but a warning that Jeil had been seen. The ranger rose and drew his sword, stabbing it into the earth within easy reach before fully drawing his bow.
‘Enough of the birdsong,’ called a voice no more than thirty yards ahead. ‘I know you’re there, so come out.’
He heard footsteps crunching over dead branches advancing towards him and stepped around the hawthorn, still certain that no one could have seen or heard him. The silk of his bowstring caressed his cheek as he caught sight of the speaker. He wasn’t much to look at: dressed in roughly patched leathers and a ragged wolf’s pelt, with a longbow slung over his shoulder and a short-handled axe at his belt. ‘I’m alone,’ he said. ‘I’ve been waiting for you all morning.’ He looked about fifty summers, with traces of white on the week’s growth of beard. An easy smile hovered on his lips, one that put Jeil on edge.
The border with Scree is a strange place to be waiting alone and on foot,’ Jeil replied, keeping his bow raised. ‘A boat couldn’t have brought you to this stretch of the river and you don’t look much like a local waterman to me.’
‘Send the other ranger back to fetch your Lord,’ the man continued.
‘I would speak to him.’ He didn’t sound like he was a native of these parts. His accent was awkward, as if his own dialect were markedly different.
‘What’s your business with my Lord?’
‘Someone sent me to speak to him. Look, boy, I knew you were coming, I could have ambushed you all if I wanted him dead. Just send your friend to tell them I’m here and then we can relax with a pipe until they arrive.’
Jeil eased the tension in the bow enough to free up his right hand. Without taking his eyes off the man, he raised his arm and motioned in the air. A whistle told him that Borl understood. Still keeping his eyes on the man, Jeil backed away and retrieved his blade; the arrow stayed nocked.
‘Don’t get comfortable,’ he warned as the man squatted down on the roots of an oak and pulled out his tobacco pouch. ‘We’ll go some of the way back, this way.’ He pointed back to where he’d left his horse.
The stranger sighed theatrically and pushed himself to his feet. A mocking smile remained on his lips as he passed the ranger. Jeil couldn’t help but wonder just what he had found instead of an ambush.
‘So who are you?’ Isak’s hand rested very obviously on Eolis’s emerald’ studded hilt. Standing face to face he dwarfed the man, but the stranger showed no sign of discomfort. Either he was mad, or there was a lot mo
re to him than met the eye. The man seemed vaguely interested in Isak’s gifts, but no more - the white-eye’s hooded face drew more attention than either Siulents or Eolis.
‘Greetings, brother,’ the stranger said, with a laconic bow. Isak saw his own confusion echoed on the faces of his companions. ‘My name is Morghien, but that will mean little enough to you, I’m sure.’
The Krann grinned under the blue silk as he caught Mihn’s eye. The small man shifted in discomfort, but did not hesitate to speak. ‘You are called the man of many spirits.’
Morghien arched his eyebrows in surprise, the smile fading momentarily, much to Isak’s satisfaction, but he didn’t falter for long-He shrugged his shoulders, causing the moth-eaten pelt to twitch as if in the final spasms of death, then said, ‘Your man knows his stories. I did not realise my fame had extended to the northern clans.’
It was Mihn’s turn to be surprised now, but Morghien simply chuckled and continued, ‘And now the introductions are out of the way, perhaps we can get to business.’
‘What business do you have with us?’ demanded Carel. ‘How did you know we were coming this way, and why did you call him brother?’
‘Explanations can come another time, but as for how I knew you were coming, let us say the girl of his dreams told me so.’
Carel laughed, but he saw Isak tense. There was a strange assurance about Morghien that worried the veteran. The man looked younger than Carel was himself, but he had an almost otherworldly air; he suited the strange title Mihn had used: the man of many spirits.
‘Should we talk alone?’ asked Morghien softly. Isak nodded and waved the others back, never taking his eyes off the man. Carel recognised Isak’s mood and moved off without a word; Vesna and the soldiers followed his lead, but Mihn didn’t move. He tightened his grip on the steel-shod staff in his hand.
Morghien turned a sympathetic eye on him. ‘It’s all right, lad. If you know about me, then you’ll know I wouldn’t stand a chance against him.’
Mihn kept very still for a moment and then bowed his head in acknowledgement. He joined Carel, but kept his eyes on Morghien. When the older man reached out to touch his arm, Mihn jumped in surprise.
‘What was that about?’
When he answered, Mihn’s voice was distant. ‘Have you heard of the Finntrail?’
‘No, who are they? Another northern tribe?’
Mihn shook his head slowly. ‘No. I will explain later. Though I don’t think he poses a threat to Lord Isak, that man is dangerous.’
Now we’re alone, tell me exactly what you mean.’ Any mention of Isak’s dreams put the white-eye on edge. How a stranger could know about the girl’s voice in them was something Isak couldn’t fathom.
‘ I’m not sure entirely,’ Morghien began, but the words died in his throat as a silver gleam appeared at his throat.
‘No riddles, old man,’ warned the Krann in a low tone.
Morghien swallowed and nodded as best he could. ‘I am afraid I may not have as many answers as you would hope. Four times now I have had dreams that are more than dreams.’
‘You said the girl of my dreams,’ Isak said impatiently. ‘Explain that.’
‘My dreams have been of a girl, talking to me. She told me aboutyou and asked me to come here to meet you. I assumed you must have dreamed of her too, for her to know who you are and where to find you.’
‘Who is she? How does she know me?’
‘Her name is Xeliath. She tells me she has been looking for you for over a year now, hardly knowing for whom she was searching, until you put on Siulents.’ ‘She can sense Siulents?’
Morghien ignored Isak’s scepticism. ‘She is, I think, scared to tell me how. She said that Siulents is like a giant beacon, shining out through the Land when she sleeps, but that your dreams are guarded too well to let her enter them. She hopes that by telling you this, you would perhaps open yourself up to her.’
I’ll need more reason than that. Continue.’
‘She’s Yeetatchen, I think, though I have never been there: her skin is as brown as a hazelnut. Xeliath is young, perhaps as little as fifteen winters.’
‘What does she want with me?’
‘I believe she wants only to help you. She persuaded me that I should too.’
‘How? What help do you think I need?’ Finally Isak lowered his sword, satisfied that the man neither could nor would do anything to harm him. Isak looked a little deeper into Morghien, feeling an unusual mix of power within the man. His strength was curious, unlike anything Isak had seen before, but it was not great enough to concern him.
‘Preparation for troubles ahead, Xeliath said.’ At Isak’s expression Morghien raised a hand and continued hurriedly, ‘She has not told me everything, and though I think I understand what she meant, telling you might make matters worse.’
‘Worse? I’ve still half a mind to kill you so what will be worse than that?’
‘You having less than half a mind,’ replied Morghien simply.
Isak opened his mouth to respond and then saw the stranger’s expression. He was being deadly serious, even if he was as insane as he sounded. The white-eye looked back to the rest of his party, then walked over to the moss-draped form of a fallen tree, indicating that Morghien should follow. He straddled the trunk and sat down, facing his companions so Morghien had to sit with his back to them. He pulled off the silken hood and ran a gauntleted hand over his cropped scalp. The cool whisper of silver on skin sounded like the breathing of wind through the trees.
‘You want to help me, and you want me to trust you, without knowing what’s going on?’
‘It is a matter of destiny, and a man learns his fate at his own risk.’ Morghien shrugged.
‘Damn my fate,’ Isak snapped back, ‘I don’t believe the future is fixed-‘
‘And it is not,’ interrupted Morghien firmly. ‘Which is why you cannot know what I mean. Xeliath is some sort of prophet or oracle, but it doesn’t take a prophet to know that a white-eye isn’t going to follow his fate willingly. Whether knowingly or not, you’ll fight against any outside forces in your life; it is what you are. But you can perhaps be prepared for what is to come.’
Isak hardly noticed that he had bitten his lip. ‘What do you propose?’
‘Xeliath thinks herself your guardian spirit. She told me, “His armour may keep his body alive, but I must watch over his soul.” It is clear that the threats to you are greater than you know.’
‘I have enough enemies, I think,’ said Isak bitterly.
Morghien ignored him and continued, ‘Xeliath has seen your death in the future and hopes to avoid it. To that end, she has asked me to help.’
‘What can you teach me?’ Isak snorted at the idea. ‘You don’t look much of a swordsman to me.’
Indeed I am not. But your death is one of the mind, not the body. If you are to be attacked in the mind, then perhaps I can be of use.’
‘Why you?’
Because, as your man back there will tell you, I am possessed.’
A cough of laughter escaped Isak’s lips, but it died soon as he saw nothing but the truth in the man’s face. ‘You’re serious?’
‘Completely serious. I’m not inhabited by a daemon, and the posession was voluntary, but yes. Remember what your man called me?’
‘The man of spirits? Something like that?’ Isak fought the urge to stand up and step back from this madman. His hand tightened for a moment around the hilt of his sheathed sword.
Morghien caught the movement and a smile of understanding crossed his lips. ‘The man of many spirits. Perhaps now is not the time, for my story is a long one, but the short answer is that I took pity on a local Aspect of Vasle. Her stream was going to be dammed, and when the water stopped flowing she would have faded to just a voice on the wind. I offered what I had out of compassion. When the last of the water stopped flowing, she entered my soul. The others - well, they were similar stories. I have a generous heart.’ ‘Mihn looked like he thou
ght you were dangerous.’ ‘Me? No, not I, but one of those within is a Finntrail, that’s true enough.’
‘And that is?’
Morghien smiled uncertainly. Obviously his choices in life had made him an outcast. Trusting his secrets to strangers was not a comfortable thing to do. Isak could sympathise there.
‘I-Ah, well, the Finntrail are a sort of ghost, I suppose. Not the ghost of a human, but something older. I don’t know exactly what they are, for they cannot remember. What could have happened to Seliasei did, I suspect, happen to the Finntrail. They are only shadows of whatever they used to be, but to retain even that much means they must have been very powerful.’
‘And they are dangerous?’
Morghien looked thoughtful for a moment, searching for the right word. ‘They are angry, perhaps that’s the best description. As long as they are capable of anger they exist as more than just a faint echo; it sustains them, whatever else it does. But, they are all subservient to me; even the Finntrail has accepted my dominance. The sensation of being alive again more than makes up for that.’
‘So what do you propose? I’m not sure I want to know how you can help me with some vicious little shade running around in your head.’
‘Call it a new experience. Trust me, it will hurt me more than you - there’s no doubt of that. I don’t pretend to be able to read those runes on your armour, but Seliasei fears them. All I ask of you is that you hold back as much as you can - and perhaps put your sword out of immediate reach.’
Isak stared at him for a moment, suspicious again, but then he closed his eyes and opened his senses to the world. An awareness of the Land about him began to filter slowly into his mind and a spreading numbness flooded through his body, a cool breath of fresh damp leaves and moist earth. In only a few seconds he began to feel the gentle shape of the ground about him, the faint pinpricks of life from his companions, the curious medley of souls about Morghien that justified the strange name Mihn called him.