by Tom Lloyd
‘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 as 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 possession 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 thought 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.
Isak smiled to himself as he experienced the peace of opening himself to the Land. From the comforting immovability of the earth beneath his feet to the vibrant swirl of air high above; all this took him away from the pulse of anger buried under his skin, however briefly.
‘I’ll trust you.’ He forced his eyelids open to disperse the dreamy contentment in his head. Drawing Eolis, he threw the weapon overarm and embedded it in a nearby elm. The silver blade drove a foot deep into the trunk and sat quivering, emitting a low hum. Even in the dull light of a cloudy morning, Eolis sparkled as if dusted in morning frost.
Satisfied that the blade was out of reach, Morghien took a moment to calm himself. Isak felt a pulse of something, maybe the Aspect’s concern at what was to come. Even a weak spirit would be aware of what it could lose.
‘I’m no scholar,’ Morghien began, ‘and I don’t pretend to understand much of spirits or daemons, for all that a friend in Narkang has tried to explain matters to me, but I can feel from the spirit’s point of view. The first thing you must learn, Lord Isak, is that they are not as powerful as people believe them to be.’
Isak’s focus returned somewhat at Morghien’s respectful use of his title. The man had felt just how strong he was; the mocking smile was gone and Morghien now looked like Kerin did on the training field. Isak reminded himself what that meant: just because he could kill Morghien with little effort said nothing about what he could learn from the man.
Morghien, unaware of Isak’s mental discussion, carried on, ‘Part of a spirit’s power derives from how it is perceived. The myths you learn, the fear and awe you experience when you encounter them - magic is a force in itself, and though different in every way to nature, it can still create a form of life ... perhaps existence is a better word.
‘So in the fashion that you and I are created from the same matter as the earth and trees, so Gods and daemons have a common source in magic.’
‘How is this helping?’ The mages from the College of Magic, in their attempts to educate the Krann, had not found fertile ground. They had made the mistake of telling him that theoretical understanding of magic would be of small use to a white-eye. Isak had taken that as a reason to pay no further attention.
Morghien’s look of irritation faded quickly as he remembered his ultimate goal. His brow furrowed as he sought a more appropriate explanation. ‘When you fight, there is more to know than stabbing a man, no?’
Isak shrugged and Morghien continued, ‘Of course there is - not only must you know your strokes, your stances and your weapons, you must also know your enemy and the Land around you. Now think of magic as this battle.
‘Your weapons and strokes might be spells or curses. They must be practised and refined so your crude swipes become deft cuts and concealed moves. Knowing your enemy - how his armour slows him or how great his reach is - is as important as knowing how the mud underfoot will slow you, whether you will slip on a particular stone, or can kick him off balance after he has struck.
‘You are aware of the slope of the Land, the rain coming down, his relative size and strength. These things you understand as naturally as you know how to chew and swallow, and as you must with magic. Magic has rules that follow their own sense - those that might ignore the warmth of the sun, but could be affected by moonlight—’
Isak held up a hand. ‘I’ve had these lessons already, I remember enough on the nature of magic. You’re starting to sound like those excitable lecturers.’
Morghien stared at him curiously. ‘You don’t find the nature of magic interesting at all?’
Isak shrugged again. Magic was intoxicating, exhilarating, to such a degree the rest of the Land faded away. Talking about it was less so. It was like discussing sex. Some people got excited enough about it to talk for hours on the subject. Isak could find no enthusiasm for just talking.
‘Well, I shall say no more then, other than you must remember they grow strong from illogical sources, that their image is often greater than their strength. There are some that are very powerful, but that is the same with men. You would not notice a man if he were not remarkable in size or strength or skill. But if that same man went berserk, he could cause a shocking amount of damage, and if he attacked a race that had never seen a man, he would terrify them.’
‘I think I understand what you mean. When I feel the presence of Nartis I’m paralysed ...’ Isak trailed off, unable to describe the sensation.
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‘And that gives him strength over you. It is intentional - the Gods project a shining image because it inspires wonder. And the more you are awed, the more powerful they grow; not only over you, but part of what sustains them is belief and praise. Gods are made stronger by belief: that you see them as greater, and worship them accordingly. And that is one of the things that separates Gods from daemons.’
‘One of the things?’
‘That is not an encouraged topic of conversation. Considering some of the things I’ve had to do while hunting down followers of Azaer, I have no desire to be actively impious on top of anything else. King Emin will know men who will be happy to have those discussions. For now, you should accept that a daemon or ghost will try to terrify you, because then you open yourself to it and lend it strength.’
He raised his hands to his face and rubbed his palms over his cheeks, the rough skin rasping against his stubbled face. ‘I think it’s time for a practical demonstration.’
Isak stared in fascination, reaching out with his senses to feel the shape of what was happening to Morghien. The man started to hold up a hand to halt the Krann’s efforts, but it was not necessary: one look at Morghien’s features had been enough for Isak to draw back hurriedly and grasp the ghost of Eolis at his hilt.
The man had changed. Subtle weaves of magic had smoothed out the lines of his face, softening the ruddy colour of his cheeks and reducing the size of his nose. It was still Morghien, but Isak could see the features were now almost those of a woman.
His voice had altered too. ‘Keep your defences strong, don’t leave yourself open,’ Morghien said, but a musical note had entered his previously rough voice.
Isak felt his mouth dry as he tried to respond, but then he remembered Morghien’s words. With an effort he could see past the glamour to the man’s true features: and he was right, nothing had changed except for Isak’s perception. With a smile he dismissed the weaves of the projected image.
Morghien shrieked in pain. His hands flew to his face as though Isak had just slashed him with a knife. He threw himself off the log and crashed face-down on to the ground. Isak jumped to his feet in alarm and Mihn rushed over with Vesna and Carel close behind. He held up a hand to them.
‘No, get back - keep away from him. He didn’t attack me.’
They did not look impressed with the order, but they complied sullenly. Morghien remained on the ground as they moved away.
A tense silence fell. Isak could hear the keening of a hawk in the distance, and the skitter of dead leaves as a gust swept them up and settled a few on Morghien’s back, like the first effort to bury a man who was lying as still as a corpse.
At last he breathed out, sending a single leaf tumbling end over end. He took his hands away from his face with careful, deliberate movements and pushed himself up from the ground. His face was disturbingly pale and calm, all trace of the Aspect gone, though his cheek and eyebrow seemed to be trembling very slightly. Then he breathed again and the calm was abruptly broken as he gulped down air, his shoulders shaking with the effort.
‘I’m sorry,’ Isak began, ‘truly. What did I do?’
Morghien felt his way back to the fallen log again and pulled himself on to it. After half a minute, some colour returned to his face and he began to explain. ‘The fault was mine. I should have explained more of the nature of glamour. But there is no serious damage done.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I am. Seliasei was hurt rather, but I think it’s shock more than anything else. The glamour is part of what she is; a local Aspect is still a God. It is not vanity, but part of her very essence. When you cut through those weaves it was like slapping my face to distort my features - except I have a shape to revert to. Seliasei has only the image of herself to define her. Without the strength to extend it to a physical form, any distortion of that image makes her forget who she is.’
Isak looked stricken. ‘I think I understand. I’m—Er, could you apologise to her for me?’ He would have felt stupid saying that, but for the glimpse of fear and pain on Morghien’s face. One thing he did remember was that death for a God was the loss of identity. A divine force could not be truly killed, but as Aryn Bwr had shown with the Crystal Skulls, it could be reduced to a voice on the wind, weakened to the point of non-existence and capable only of remembering that once it had been so much more. Isak had shivered at the prospect of eternity like that: a sense of loss the only sliver of self left.
‘She will recover, but she will not come out in your presence again. Even before that she was terrified of you. She’s a local God, an Aspect, sharing some memories with Vasle and his view of history. They see the present in a completely different way to mortals. To her, you are partly to blame for the death of Vasle’s brother, for it was partly you who proved Gods could be effectively destroyed.’
‘Ah. And then I did something akin to just that. I’m sorry.’
‘There’s more of a problem than that. She had agreed to touch your mind, to help you understand how Xeliath thinks you will be attacked. Now ...’ Morghien’s voice trailed off. His eyes lost their focus as if he were listening to a faint voice behind him. Isak watched silently.
‘We can but try,’ he said aloud finally. Isak was burning to ask what had been decided, but he’d caused enough trouble - and besides, he was too impatient to listen to more explanations.
‘Please, sit again.’ Morghien motioned Isak to the fallen tree. Once they were facing each other again, Morghien closed his eyes and started breathing deeply. When he looked up to Isak again, he appeared calmer, still himself, but ready for whatever lay ahead.
He reached out and touched his fingertips to Isak’s forehead. The white-eye recoiled slightly, then leaned forward so Morghien wouldn’t have to stretch quite so far. As he did so, Isak realised that the muscles of his shoulders were rigid with anticipation, ready to strike out. He made himself relax and opened his thoughts again.
A chill breeze touched his cheek, like the caress of winter fingers. He closed his eyes to focus on the smooth sensation as it trembled over his skin. A tingling began on his forehead where Morghien was touching him, trickling down through his right eyebrow and into the cheekbone. The delicate sensation grew in strength and Isak felt the warmth of his body begin to seep from his skin. This time he was careful not to disturb the shade that was greedily leeching off him. Whatever it was, it lacked the strength to cause him any hurt, whether it was intended to or not.
In his mind, Isak was aware of an ancient odour - not actually unpleasant, but not enjoyable: the dry scent of a tomb, the smell of undisturbed years rather than a corpse, but still a dead place. The prickle of ice increased, sliding its way down to his jugular.
Now Isak stopped it gently, reaching around the helpless spirit to bind it and keep it still so he could see what he was dealing with. It was still terribly weak, but it had drawn enough strength for the image of a man’s face to appear in Isak’s mind. He could perceive features etched in a white mist - a thin jaw, deep-set eyes, hair receding from a smooth forehead: the first things the shade could remember of itself.
As with Seliasei, identity was the first concern. Once they had a face, a name, a memory, it helped bring the Land back into focus for them. Until a sense of self could be produced, desires and emotions couldn’t matter because there was no reference for them. As the shade struggled in vain, Isak felt a moment of pity. There was no malice in its desire for the warmth and strength of his body, only a desperation that Isak found achingly sad. Once he had cradled it for a while, Isak realised he understood enough and ushered the spirit back to Morghien. As he did so he sent a thought to it, almost an apology, as it fought his grip. Let go. Life is for the living.
As the misty shape faded away, a blackness leapt up from nowhere and enveloped Isak’s mind. A stab of pain flashed through his head as the invading spirit took him in its numbing grip and fed savagely at his throat. This was no half-forgotten Aspect: Isak felt as if he had fallen
into an icy stream. Each time he moved he felt his strength being sucked out of him. The cold kept flowing over his skin, drawing out heat, drawing out life.
Isak began to panic as each breath grew harder, as his body faded away into a deadened memory. Images of hungry eyes and long thin fangs flashed before his eyes. He felt the Finntrail’s desire, its anger and loss fuelling the enveloping strength. He was afraid of becoming that hollow.
Then Morghien’s words came back to him: such creatures were hollow; their strength was partly what you gave them. This suppressed the alarm clouding his mind. He looked again at the feeding spirit and saw it was insubstantial. He saw the mist of its form and how easily he could push through.
The numbing ceased as Isak reached out with his mind, ignoring the desperate, but now feather-light, retaliation. He reached out all around him and gathered the inky strands in tight. The Finntrail struggled and raged, but it was powerless. With a furious scream the shadow was expelled back to Morghien and the wanderer withdrew his hand and smiled weakly.
The Krann didn’t meet Morghien’s eye. Looking round to his companions he saw Mihn, Carel and Tila watching as before. Nothing appeared to have changed, but Isak shivered slightly. The air felt cooler than before, as if the night’s frost had returned. He rose and began to walk the ten yards to retrieve Eolis before stopping short suddenly. He whirled around, but he could see nothing different - but it felt as if they had been joined by another. Beyond the road the trees were empty and quiet. The sky above held only a few birds, too distant to recognise, but still Isak felt uneasy. He wrenched the blade from its resting place but didn’t sheathe it. The others gave him uncomfortable looks, but Isak ignored them, glad of the security Eolis lent.
An unheard chuckle crept out from the overhanging branches of a yew. The birds nearby were startled into flight as they sensed malevolence all around. Only the wind heard and it swept away after the birds, dead leaves and damp crumbs of earth skittering away in its wake.