by Tom Lloyd
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.’