The Ragged Man

by Lloyd, Tom

  Kail grabbed the woman by the arm, but without warning her legs went from under her and with a gasp of pain the devotee collapsed onto the ground, protecting the arm Kail had broken to subdue her.

  Venn frowned. She hadn’t passed out, so the fall was intentional.

  ‘Going nowhere,’ the woman hissed through the pain. ‘You want to kill me, do it here.’

  Venn had to laugh at her defiance, however short his humour was. ‘All I want is to know why you were following us.’

  ‘Piss on you,’ she snapped, ‘whoever you are. I was sent watchin’ the merchant.’

  ‘I can hardly let you go now,’ Venn said, drawing his sword once more.

  ‘That blood on your sword?’ she asked derisively. ‘Oh sure, an injured devotee of the Lady’ll run to the guards as quickly as she can when murder’s been done. Bloody love gaols, me.’

  Venn thought a moment, then sheathed his sword and gestured to the others to move on. The woman looked up in surprise, but it was short-lived. He slapped away her raised hand, gripped her head and twisted it violently. There was a sharp snap as her neck broke and she fell limp.

  ‘Nice try,’ Venn muttered as he smashed her head against the ground, then arranged her broken arm underneath her body, ‘but I prefer not to gamble.’

  He looked up at the buildings above them; the fall was easily high enough to be fatal. Quickly he climbed up on top of the walkway and stamped hard onto the overhanging tar-covered boards covering it, enough to snap a pair of them and send the pieces down to lie on the ground beside the body.

  ‘Plausible enough,’ he announced quietly as he lowered himself to the ground. ‘And now we must lose ourselves in night’s embrace.’

  Capan gave a curt nod. ‘These deeds are done,’ he said, recognising the play Venn had quoted, ‘let the veil of darkness be our only witness.’

  ‘And so the game changes once again,’ Ruhen said softly. The unnatural boy was standing next to Ilumene at a high window, looking down at Byora. The room was pitch-black, lit only by the pale light of Alterr shining through the windows. This was how they both liked it, caught in the embrace of the concealing night.

  ‘A change too far, maybe,’ Ilumene added, idly balancing a stiletto on the back of his scarred hand.

  ‘How so?’

  The big soldier squatted down at Ruhen’s side so he could look into the child’s shadow-laden eyes. ‘This is all happening too fast, you can’t deny that.’

  ‘Change is inevitable.’

  ‘Don’t give me that,’ Ilumene said firmly, trying to restrain his growing impatience. ‘I’m not Luerce or even Venn - I won’t swallow that without question.’

  ‘Good.’

  Ilumene waited but Ruhen’s gaze was unblinking and eventually he realised the child was expecting him to provide the reasons himself. He sighed and sat down on the floor. With the stiletto he pointed out over the city. ‘Since he was Chosen, the Farlan boy accelerated this war with every breath he took - it’s burning hot, fast and out of our control.’

  ‘Fortunate he died before he achieved further mischief.’

  Ilumene shook his head. ‘The damage is done. If the Menin conquer Narkang this season we may not have enough time.’

  ‘Kastan Styrax has many Skulls yet to track down.’

  ‘At the pace he’s going? He’ll regain Knowledge and Ruling when he cuts out Emin’s heart, and he’ll most likely find the journal sitting on the man’s desk. Smart money is on the vampires offering theirs, believing it worthwhile to believe what he would promise in return. That brings his total to nine.

  ‘When Venn arrives it could become ten without much strife. All we’re missing are Hunting and Dreams, both in Farlan hands and both on the list for next summer, if not earlier.’ His voice came more urgent, ‘Master, we planned for five years of long, drawn-out war, to give us time to prepare the way.’

  Ruhen was silent for a time, staring out over the great buildings of Eight Towers and the districts beyond.

  ‘Your tune has changed since we last discussed this.’

  ‘I’ve had time to think since.’

  ‘And the new melody?’

  ‘What would it take to be ready by the end of next year?’ Ilumene sheathed the knife and leaned closer to Ruhen. ‘I know the goal, but not the exact method - if we were to gather the objects we need by the end of next summer, what would be lacking?’

  ‘A power-base,’ Ruhen replied, turning to face his scarred protector, ‘the foundation of worship.’

  ‘Exactly. Your preachers were to spend those five years of war drawing followers away from the Gods and to your own worship, thus weakening the Gods and building your own foundation. Gods and daemons and everything in between: the worship does Styrax no good while he is mortal, but you are not mortal, no matter what form you appear in.’

  ‘I thought you more intelligent than this,’ Ruhen said, his expression turning cold. ‘If I drew my strength from the worship of mortals, I would already have done so.’

  Ilumene grinned. ‘Appearances can be deceiving,’ he said, before hurriedly continuing, ‘A God receives worship, a daemon thrives off fear and pain - but both are strengthened by the followers they possess, and I’d guess the same goes for everything in between. King’s Men aren’t just soldiers or spies; Emin insisted we knew more of the Land than the folklore of childhood. We spent too much time in the wilds to be ignorant of such things; I might’ve forgotten much, but I remember one thing the old witch who taught us used to say: “the only hierarchy more rigid that the Pantheon of the Gods is found in the chaos of the Dark Place”. No matter where they’re from, beings of magic can be subsumed by others, just as they can offer their power, no? A power base is the only way they can maintain their position.’

  ‘Our new friend?’

  ‘She ain’t strong enough yet, not for her needs. She was once an Aspect of Death, so how long ’til He rectifies that situation? She can’t hide forever, but maybe we can help her prepare.’

  ‘Offered the right covenant,’ Ruhen said, ‘perhaps, yes. She will be resistant to the very idea of a new master.’

  Ilumene snorted. ‘Whatever her bluster, she’ll know it’s a straight choice.’

  ‘Dare we expect logic from a God?’

  ‘Fair point,’ Ilumene admitted, ‘but you’re known to be persuasive.’

  Ruhen smiled at last, his small, neat teeth bright in the moonlight. ‘It will take Venn a few days to return. I have until then to decide,’ he said, but the expression on his face was enough for Ilumene. It would be done.

  With that, the twilight reign crept closer.

  Through a break in the canopy Venn looked up at the early evening sky. Long trails of cloud reached over the paling sky to where the sun was just about to set. As his custom since leaving the snow-bound home of the Harlequin clans, Venn crossed his hands over his heart and inclined his head towards the orange ball at the horizon.

  He’d seen this done in Mantil, throughout the pirate havens and fishing ports of that island. It was a gesture of deference, echoing Azaer’s small contribution to the Elven language, and he had adopted it himself to greet twilight.

  I have seen how flawed my people are, Venn thought with a smile, how enslaved they have been to telling one particular notion of history and refuting Aryn Bwr’s heretical truths . . . And yet still I am drawn to tradition with all the rest of them; still I feel the need for solemnity and reverence. ‘Flawed and frail is man and so we raise Gods in our better image’ - Verliq had a point there.

  The black-clad Harlequin pointed to a fallen oak ahead. ‘We’ll make camp there,’ he said, slipping his pack from his shoulders and holding it out for Marn to take from him. ‘There is something I must do first.’

  Capan shot him a questioning look, but led the others on.

  Venn watched them go, walking with the lithe grace of all Harlequins. ‘And what a sight they will look when they are all gathered,’ he whispered to the twilight. ‘Not
even the Reavers could stand against two regiments of Harlequins. Never will death have looked so beautiful.’

  He turned away and headed to a spot he’d noted earlier: a long dip in the ground that curved slowly off to the right, a natural ditch covered in lush bracken. The ground fell away after that so Venn had to walk only a short distance before he was out of sight of the others. Somewhere above his head he could hear the chatter of sparrows and, closer, the high abrupt chirp of bluecrests as they chased the evening midges.

  ‘Jackdaw,’ he said, ‘do your work.’

  Unbidden, Venn felt his lips move and as the Crystal Skull at his waist drew in the air around him the smell of earthy undergrowth filled his nose. It was overlaid by another, sharper tang, and Venn wrinkled his nose as that developed into a stench of decay he could taste at the back of his throat like bile. He looked around, but saw no one.

  Rojak spoke in his mind. ‘Cautious in your freedom, my queen?’

  Venn saw movement off to his left and turned as the Wither Queen rose from the tall bracken and closed on him. She was eying the former Harlequin with naked suspicion. She came close enough to reach out and touch him, but there she stopped, looking all around while her tongue, serpent-like, flicked her lips. Her skin had the pallor of the dead. It was stretched tight over her bones, and looked fragile, as if it might tear at the slighted touch. Matted hair partly obscured her face and strands stuck to a weeping scab on her jaw.

  ‘There is no charity in your heart, spirit,’ she replied, peering at him as though she could see Rojak’s soul through Venn’s eyes, ‘so cautious I remain.’

  From the undergrowth wisps of black fog pulsed and shifted with restless energy, and he could see shapes resembling rats moving along the ground. They surrounded the former Aspect of Death, forming a cordon that Venn believed to be more substantial than it looked.

  He looked at the nearest of the rats and saw it watching him, its spectral jaw hanging slack. Venn suppressed the urge to draw one of his swords and looked away, putting the spirit’s hungry eyes from his mind.

  ‘As you wish,’ Rojak replied, unperturbed. ‘I come to claim that which you promised.’

  ‘Then ask your boon and be gone.’

  Rojak laughed his strange, girlish laugh, but the Wither Queen made no sign of whether she’d heard it. ‘It is only this - that you listen to me a while longer.’

  ‘The Harlequins prove a dull audience for your prattling?’

  ‘They have heard all my stories,’ Rojak agreed, ‘but what I ask of you is something different. I have a proposal-I wish you to listen and make no decision until I have finished.’

  ‘What trickery is this?’ she asked angrily, and half a dozen more insubstantial spirits appeared in the air between the Wither Queen and Venn.

  ‘No trickery,’ Rojak assured her, ‘but you will need persuading before you agree to my suggestion.’

  Two of the pulsing black spirits raced away suddenly, darting through the trees like startled sparrows to scout the nearby forest more properly. Venn saw the Wither Queen mouth silent words as she turned to watch them go.

  ‘Speak your piece,’ she commanded once they had gone. The Goddess tasted the air again, but this time it was a predatory action. The stink of her presence became a cloying force in Venn’s nose and throat. It was all he could do not to gag as Rojak cheerfully continued, apparently enjoying the sense of corruption all around him.

  ‘These forests are not only your hunting ground; they are also your refuge.’

  Venn saw the Wither Queen’s eyes narrow, but she kept to the bargain they had made and did not speak.

  ‘You have grown stronger away from Death’s presence, but not so strong that you can prevent Him from leashing you once more. To do that you need more than brute strength, you need stature - in the divine sense.’

  There was a note of enjoyment in Rojak’s voice that Venn recognised all too well. The minstrel had always loved to lecture, to present truths to others and let them walk the dark paths he revealed. To do so with a God would be a pleasure worth savouring.

  ‘We have the means to bring this about, to secure for you a place in the Pantheon that Death himself will not wish to disrupt.’

  ‘How?’ The Wither Queen asked, her expression turning from suspicious to one of burning hunger.

  ‘A king is measured by his subjects, a God by its followers. Death must respect a position within the Pantheon because He is the epitome of rank, of authority - but spirits of the forest do not convey the worship a God needs to be called a God.’

  ‘My mortal followers are few and reluctant; their prayers full of bitter tears.’

  ‘And there you are a God most rare,’ Rojak said, as softly as if he were whispering to a lover.

  The Wither Queen stared, waiting for him to continue.

  Rojak chuckled, enjoying the moment. ‘Others of the Pantheon, however, are more fortunate and it pains me to see such beauty lack the majesty it deserves. My suggestion is this - permit us to help you achieve this position and ally with us in our endeavours. In return, when the time is right and our need is pressing, lend my master your power when it is requested.’

  ‘Your master wishes to bind me as Death would? What good is it to exchange one lord for another?’

  ‘It would be a loan, to last no longer than a moon - it is not domination over you my master seeks, merely assistance to ensure a similar freedom as that we offer you.’

  The Wither Queen was silent for a time; even the spirits surrounding her stilled and the darkening forest itself became hushed.

  Venn realised every muscle in his body had gone taut with anticipation.

  ‘A term of service, when asked for, to last until the moon is new,’ she said at last. Venn felt the tension drain from his body. ‘In return for providing me with the power to resist Death’s call. Prove you have the power to do such a thing and there shall be a covenant.’

  ‘It would be a pleasure,’ Rojak purred. ‘If you are ready to take what is deservedly yours?’

  Venn heard a second voice in his head as Jackdaw started murmuring; he could not make it out at first - then he froze, recognising the form easily enough that the words did not matter. Jackdaw was praying. Once he had been a prior at a monastery to Vellern, until Jackdaw had renounced his vows and become sundered from his God. Needless to say, the Gods disapproved of such behaviour - using prayer to summon one was like poking an already-angry bear. The God of Birds might well be diminished after Zhia Vukotic killed an Aspect and high priest of his in Scree, but feeble he was not.

  Venn smiled; Vellern wouldn’t even think twice before incarnating. A greasy sensation slithered down the former Harlequin’s spine as Jackdaw drew on the Crystal Skull he carried. The forest went completely silent and even the breeze drifting through the leaves vanished as the dusk birdsong faded to nothing. Venn felt a prickle of excitement and his heart began to beat faster as the Jackdaw’s incantation grew louder.

  The Wither Queen was busy herself, her eyes firmly closed, her arms held outstretched as she performed her own summoning. Pinpricks of pale light began to appear all around her - five, ten, twenty - forming sickly constellations above her head. A handful sank to the ground and wriggled like diseased mice before abruptly spasming and splitting open for new rat-like wisps to emerge. More rats scampered from the undergrowth with unnatural speed to gather and fawn at the tattered hem of her skirt.

  Jackdaw’s intonation broke off suddenly and Venn looked around. The forest was empty, but there was a sudden sense of weight in the air like the heaviness before a storm.

  ‘He comes,’ Jackdaw whispered from the recesses of Venn’s mind. He sounded terrified. The taste of magic appeared thick in his mouth, eclipsing the Wither Queen’s putrefaction. Venn gripped the Crystal Skull firmly with one hand and reached for a sword with the other. He didn’t know whether it would do any good, but if this all went wrong he didn’t want to die empty-handed.

  A dark shadow descended
over them all. For a moment Venn thought it was Vellern, swooping from on high, but then he felt the familiar touch of Azaer on his mind and relaxed.

  The moment didn’t last long; in the next instant there was a swirl of air a few yards away that seemed to fold in upon itself and Venn blinked and found himself staring at the stern, hairless face of Vellern. Standing eight feet tall, with a mantle of peacock feathers that reached all the way to the ground, the God of Birds glared around, searching for Jackdaw.

  The God carried a long jet-black javelin in his taloned hands. He levelled the weapon at Venn, who took a step back, his hand tightening on his sword. Vellern advanced a step, half-turning his back on the Wither Queen in his fury.

  ‘You elude me no longer, traitor,’ Vellern said, his voice sharp and quick like an eagle’s cry.