The Ragged Man

by Lloyd, Tom

  ‘Enough,’ Vesna shouted, loud enough to make even the fanatic hesitate. The penitents were staring at Vesna with increasing apprehension. He knew his reputation as a warrior wasn’t the cause; it was the effect of Karkarn’s blood flowing through his veins. Time to use that divine authority.

  ‘Unmen Dors,’ Vesna continued in a quieter voice, ‘you will lead your troops away from this place and instruct the High Cardinal they are not to return. You will do this now.’

  ‘You do not issue the cults with orders,’ Dors squeaked with outrage, ‘you have no authority over us! It is our duty to see the abomination is removed from the seat of power and prevented from issuing his monstrous orders!’

  Vesna didn’t bother to respond; there was no reasoning with a fanatic. He felt something flicker inside him, something stir and grow. A coppery taste bloomed on his tongue and the Land grew suddenly sharper, each line and shadow more defined. He felt shadows spill from his shoulders like a mantle of boiling darkness and a sudden surge of rushing power flowed through his limbs.

  The shadows cascaded all around and flooded the cobbled square around his horse. Vesna took a slow, deep breath and twitched back his red cloak to reveal the iron-clad arm. Tight, twisting energies snaked around the black-iron plates and Vesna saw Unmen Dors’ eyes widen.

  ‘Get out of my way and take your mercenaries with you,’ Vesna snarled, feeling his face flicker as he spoke — the spirit of the God of War was coming closer to the surface. The ruby teardrop blazed with crimson light and cast a bloody corona around Vesna’s head.

  He felt the reverberations of his voice in his mortal bones; the whole of Barbican Square appeared to shudder with every syllable. The unmen’s resolve collapsed and he staggered backwards, his hands raised as though to protect himself from a physical blow. The priest of Karkarn sank to his knees, white-faced and terrified.

  The penitents, all mercenaries, no doubt, shrank back. Those among them who prayed would pray to Karkarn, and none would doubt the God’s presence now. They began to shuffle away while Dors still cringed under Vesna’s stare, but the tall priest was stirred to action when he heard the scrabbling footsteps of the penitents racing away.

  ‘You may tell the High Cardinal he is not to send troops to the Palace again,’ Vesna called after them. ‘If he wants to debate religious authority with me he can come alone.’

  He looked up; the archers were staring out over the battlements, the same look of horror on their faces as the fleeing penitents.

  ‘What do you lot think you’re waiting for?’ he called. ‘Get that damn gate open before your commander arrives or you’ll wish it was a bloody prince of daemons waiting down here!’

  CHAPTER 16

  Count Vesna rode out from the tunnel beneath the Palace Barbican and hesitated. Nothing had changed except for the thinned lines of recruits assembled to welcome the Ghosts home, but, quite unbidden, his mind cast back to the day he first arrived here. The sights and smells had changed little in the intervening decades. While this return was a somewhat muted affair, Vesna felt his heart ache as the clatter and clamour of that day filled his ears, swamping his senses as completely as they had a young provincial noble on his first trip to Tirah Palace.

  Not long past his seventeenth birthday and newly raised to his title, it had been a wary and angry youth who’d ridden into that massive hemmed space and looked around in wonder. Sotonay Shaberale had been at his side: a whiskered veteran of sixty summers who’d spent much of the previous two years teaching Vesna sword-craft. To Vesna’s surprise, they had barely arrived when a bellow echoed out over the training ground.

  All eyes had turned, first to the hulking figure of Swordmaster Herotay as he roared ‘Shab!’ followed by a stream of inventive, anatomically impossible obscenities.

  The Swordmaster had run from the crowd of nervous youths he’d been inspecting — hopeful farm-boys and proud young nobles alike — who watched with alarm as Herotay dragged Vesna’s mentor one-handed from his saddle and enveloped him in a bearhug that made the older man gasp.

  ‘What have you brought me then, you whoring old bastard? How long are you staying?’ Herotay had demanded, casting his appraising eye over Vesna. Vesna had slid from his saddle and offered the Swordmaster an awkward bow while Shab battered the man away.

  ‘Just long enough to get you drunk and yer wife in bed,’ Shab said with a levity Vesna had never heard before. ‘I made the journey to show the faith I got in this boy, but he don’t need me here to hold his hand.’

  ‘All the way from Anvee? Death’s bony cock, boy, you must be good!’

  Vesna hadn’t known how to respond to that; Shab had made it clear this wasn’t the place for pride. The veteran had told only part of the truth in any case: the death of Vesna’s father had hit him harder than he then realised, and Shab had come along as much to keep him out of trouble as to recommend his pupil.

  ‘I realise the honour Master Shab does me,’ he had stuttered, ‘and I will endeavour to live up to it.’

  Herotay had laughed. ‘Don’t you worry yourself about his honour, boy. The man’s been sniffing around my wife like a horny ferret for thirty years now; there ain’t much honour for him in my eyes. Mind you, you’re prettier than Shab ever was, so maybe you’ll do him proud there too.’

  ‘How proud would you be now, Shab?’ Vesna wondered aloud as he watched the Ghosts stream in, some to be reunited; all to share the grief of others. ‘I doubt you expected this when you told Herotay I was destined for great things.’

  For the hundredth time that week he rubbed the fingers of his left hand together, wincing at the numbed sensation — it was neither skin nor armour but something other. He could not inspect the join between the two; that was one thing he would have to trust Tila to do for him. The only visible join was at his shoulder where the pauldron sat; his cuirass had been no problem to remove, but everything from the pauldron to his fingertips was fused to his skin: from the mail that covered his inner arm and armpit to the raised ridge of the pauldron that deflected blows from his neck, it was all a part of him. It was maybe not flesh, but the loss of any piece would hurt like a bastard to remove, even the lion-embossed plate that protected the elbow joint.

  Lost in his thoughts, Vesna was an island the wary mortals skirted as they went about their lives. Only a handful looked in his direction, and none for long — unlike that day twenty years ago. Then, they had all noted his face, and the special attention Vesna had received — it had been his first taste of the burden a reputation could build.

  In the public trials Vesna had been the only one to knock down the Swordmaster facing him, but it had been mostly thanks to a slip and it worked against him in the end. Shab had told him that every man entered the Ghosts on his arse, and Vesna was no exception; Swordmaster Herotay himself had seen to that. The bruises from his wooden swords took a week longer than anyone else’s to fade, but he’d given a good account of himself, and laid a clear marker.

  Vesna shook the thought from his mind. He’d spent enough time thinking during the last few weeks to last any soldier a lifetime. Slipping from his horse, he beckoned over a groom and headed towards the main wing where General Lahk was waiting for him.

  Before he reached the building a still figure caught his eye: a young man in the white robes of a chaplain, who was growing increasingly pale as he watched the returning Ghosts ride in. The cobalt-blue hem of his robe had a band of white running through it and the legion crest sewn over his heart was that of the Ghosts itself.

  ‘Legion Chaplain?’ Vesna ventured as he approached the young man.

  The chaplain jumped, startled. ‘Ah, yes sir, Chaplain Cerrat,’ he said when he recovered his composure.

  Vesna extended his hand, feeling a pang of sympathy for the youth. ‘I’ve heard your name mentioned. Lord Bahl himself ordered your appointment, no?’

  Cerrat’s face flushed with nervous relief as he gripped Vesna’s forearm. ‘He did, sir, yes.’

  ‘Stop th
at,’ Vesna said sharply. ‘I don’t care how young you might be — you must remember your position, Legion Chaplain Cerrat. You are on Colonel Carasay’s command staff now; your military rank is equivalent to mine, even if a chaplain can’t issue orders.’ He turned his head so Cerrat could clearly see the two gold earrings in his left ear.

  ‘Take it for granted and they’ll make your life a misery,’ Vesna continued, ‘but put it aside to avoid throwing your weight around and they’ll never respect you. Without respect a chaplain’s just an angry priest, and the Gods know we’ve had enough of those.’

  Cerrat swallowed and bobbed his head. ‘You’re right, sorry. I’ve only been here a few days; this is all a bit of a shock, both the position and the influence I’m told I have within the cult. I arrived here as a novice.’ The new legion chaplain had a boy’s face but a soldier’s build; he was bigger than Vesna had been when he first arrived, and he was unlikely to have stopped growing yet.

  Vesna forced a smile and clapped his black-iron-clad hand on Cerrat’s shoulder. ‘As did I, as did we all.’

  At the contact Cerrat’s eyes widened. He wasn’t a battle-mage, but he was an ordained priest of Nartis now, and he would be able to feel something of Karkarn’s spirit within Vesna, even if he could not yet put a name to it.

  ‘Some of us arrive with greater expectation on our shoulders than the rest,’ Vesna assured him with a smile, ‘men we’ve revered saying we’ll surpass them, but you look strong enough to bear that weight. Only those who ask great things of themselves achieve them; just don’t be in any rush.’

  Cerrat nodded in understanding. The chaplains were the heartbeat of the regiments; the fiercest and most uncompromising among them; he had much to learn from his flock to be able to fill the position he’d been given.

  ‘Enough of that,’ Verna said. ‘Do you know where I can find Lord Fernal and the Chief Steward?’

  ‘They’re in the main wing — meeting an envoy from Merlat who arrived a few hours ago.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Vesna looked back at the crowd of soldiers behind them. ‘This evening, when they’re all settled, go and find Sergeant Kishen and get drunk with him. That’ll be the first lesson in your education in dealing with the Ghosts.’

  Having dropped the new legion chaplain squarely into the middle of the lake, Vesna collected General Lahk and together they made their way through the Great Hall to the quieter private areas beyond. Just before the wide, ornately decorated main staircase was the ducal audience chamber. A pair of guards suggested Lord Fernal’s presence within.

  Vesna didn’t recognise the livery, but it wasn’t much of a surprise: a dark-blue snake coiled around a sheaf of arrows, its head raised toward an occluded moon. They were admitted without a word and entered to find five people standing before the massive ducal throne, the seat of Farlan power.

  The throne, hewn from a single piece of dark wood and inlaid with symbols of the Gods, was built for white-eyes. It lacked the intricate detailing found on its equivalent in Narkang. Too heavy for two normal men to lift together and able to resist an axe-blow: everything about it said solidity, strength and permanence — and the blue-skinned Demi-God Fernal suited it perfectly.

  At the sight of the new Lord of the Farlan Vesna was reminded of Lord Bahl. Fernal wore plain, loose breeches and a white linen shirt over which spilled his mane of dark cerulean fur. The last time they had met Fernal had been wearing only a tattered cloak, replaced now by one of blood-red, to show he too mourned Isak. But it was the silver circlet on Fernal’s crumpled brow that gave Vesna the biggest start.

  He had to move quickly to catch up with General Lahk and kneel before the bastard son of Nartis, barely remembering in time to unclip his sword from his belt and offer it forward. As he did so, Vesna cursed his own stupidity. He’d had weeks to get used to the idea of Fernal being named the Lord of the Farlan, but still the sight of Fernal wearing a ducal circlet had tripped him.

  ‘General Lahk, Count Vesna, welcome home. Please, rise.’

  Fernal still had trouble with the rolling vowels of a dialect unsuited to one with the teeth and tongue of a wolf, but his deep, booming voice was that of a lord all the same.

  He looks the part, he sounds the part, Vesna thought as he returned his sword to its usual place. Now we just need to find out how much he’s willing to fight for the part.

  ‘Lord Fernal,’ the pair said in response, for the benefit of the envoy as much as tradition.

  ‘General, I’m sure you have much work to do dealing with your troops,’ Fernal said. ‘If you wish to leave and see to them please do so.’

  Lahk bowed and left as smartly as he had arrived. He had no interest in the dealings of politicians.

  Vesna glanced at the others in the room. His eyes went first to Tila — it had been all he could do not to seek her out immediately, but he knew the envoy would have been watching and any deviation from tradition would have been noted. When at last their eyes met he felt a weight lift at pleasure which had blossomed on her face.

  Tila wore a plain white dress, and her luxuriant dark hair had been swept to one side and wrapped in a red mourning scarf embroidered with a prayer for the dead, one of the few in the Palace to have done so. The period of mourning was technically over, but it was traditional for the army to mourn until it had returned; Vesna guessed Tila was doing the same.

  The envoy himself was a knight Vesna didn’t recognise, despite being of a similar age; he too had battlefield honours tattooed on his neck. He bowed respectfully to Vesna while Chief Steward Lesarl, looking older and more fatigued than Vesna had ever seen, gave him just the briefest of nods.

  Behind Lesarl were two armed men who looked like neither noblemen nor soldiers; each was carrying a rapier and long dagger, the weapons of a trained duellist, and Vesna guessed them to be agents of the Chief Steward. Curiously enough, they flanked Lesarl rather than Fernal, suggesting they were there to protect him rather than their lord.

  ‘Count Vesna, your own business will have to wait until we are finished here,’ Fernal said as the door was shut behind Lahk, ‘unless there is anything you wish to say first?’

  Vesna shook his head. Fernal was asking whether he still considered himself a subject of the Lord of the Farlan. ‘No, my Lord, I await your pleasure.’

  ‘In that case, Sir Jachers here was just outlining the position of the Farlan’s westerly dukes.’

  ‘Both of them?’ Vesna asked sharply, looking at the envoy.

  The Dukes Lokan and Sempes rarely agreed on anything since Lokan had poisoned his uncle — Sempes’ distant cousin — to take the dukedom, and their ‘disagreements’ had resulted in one sea engagement and three outright land battles, not to mention an entire dossier of clandestine actions.

  ‘Both. I am a man of Perlir,’ Sir Jachers clarified, ‘but Duke Lokan contacted my lord when he heard of Lord Isak’s death. Their concerns on the subjects in hand are close enough that they speak with one voice.’

  ‘And that would be your voice. What are the subjects being discussed?’

  ‘Principally: the legality of Lord Fernal’s appointment, Lord Fernal’s intentions regarding this position, the continuing problems with the cults, and Lord Isak’s crusade.’

  ‘Has Duke Lomin added his voice to this discussion yet?’ Vesna asked, wondering how Lord Isak’s appointment would be reacting to the news.

  Lomin had shown the rest of the tribe he was as independent as his peers when he refused to send troops to join Isak’s ‘crusade’, but how he would react now was anyone’s guess. Their information on the man was not complete enough for sensible guesses to be made, he’d proved that much.

  Sir Jachers shook his head. ‘The mind of Duke Lomin is not known to my master, they have met but once. Anticipating the wishes of Duke Lokan is somewhat easier. Duke Sempes has sent me here with all possible speed so that swift decisions might be made, if any agreement can be reached. He believes acting before the suzerains do so en masse is the best way
to guide their actions.’

  ‘In that he is correct,’ Lesarl broke in. ‘With your permission, Lord Fernal, might I suggest we bring the discussion to a close for the time being? There is much that needs to be done now the Ghosts have returned and you might wish to consider Sempes and Lokan’s positions before proposing a resolution.’

  Fernal nodded. He knew how little of the nation’s politics — Isak had asked him to take this position because he wanted a leader who could be a symbol for all, as well as a warrior. A nose for politics would have been the least of Isak’s requirements.

  ‘A good idea. I will sleep on it. Now, if you would give me the room? I must speak with Count Vesna before he goes about his duties.’

  The others left smartly, Tila ushering Sir Jachers away and Lesarl only too keen to be about his work. Vesna watched her leave, feeling fresh pangs of guilt over leaving Isak on the battlefield. His death would have hurt her badly. Tila was still young, and she had been closer to Isak than to either of her brothers. However much they had infuriated each other, the bond between them had only strengthened with every squabble.