‘You wanted to be alone?’
At that he turned and Mihn saw a smile on his abused face. ‘I like the moonlight,’ he said simply, ‘and this tobacco’s good.’
‘I remember once you were not so comfortable in the presence of shadows,’ Mihn said, taking his usual position at Isak’s side.
Isak inclined his head in agreement. ‘I was many things,’ he commented. ‘Some I’ve lost, some I’ve learned to live with. I can’t decide yet, has all this left me unrecognisable, or put me back to where I began?’
‘Which would you prefer?’
A sigh. ‘Dunno. I’ve forgotten enough already so I’d hope there was some of me left.’
‘Then I dub you the brat I first met,’ Mihn pronounced with laughter in his voice.
The night air was soft on his skin, the packed earth pleasingly cool underfoot. From the trees came the rustle of leaves, like a drawn-out sigh of the Land readying for sleep. The rest of the village were long abed and silent, though he could see lamps still lit and hanging from the eaves of houses. The furthest was just a yellow glow against the dark silhouette of a house on the far bank of the River Castir.
‘A waiting soul,’ Mihn commented, looking past Isak to the distant lamp, ‘a light that doesn’t move through the darkness, just waiting for the living to perform some task.’
‘Or follow,’ Isak added. ‘I know some folklore, and you don’t need to coddle me any longer.’
‘As you say, my Lord.’
Isak gave him a shove at the formality. ‘And enough of that too!’ His tone became serious. ‘You don’t need to worry; I’m not haunted by death any more. That burden’s been lifted.’
‘But we are all closer to it, every day closer.’
‘Now who’s being morbid?’
Mihn bowed his head. ‘There are many souls waiting for us these days, so many lights in the dark.’
‘Sometimes a light in the dark is a witch, remember? And sometimes it’s just a fucking lamp.’
‘Still I feel them waiting,’ Mihn said sadly.
‘Well, don’t worry, you’re not dying, not until I let you,’ Isak declared. ‘Any soul doesn’t like it, they can face me. The daemon that owned your death is gone, and I own your life. My death meant a breaking of the prophecies that had me snared, and all that was tied to me, my title included — but you told me yourself: you don’t get off that easy.’
‘“The ties that bind”,’ Mihn whispered to the night, ‘“are cut by Death’s pale hand. The ties that make us whole He does not sever.”’
‘Exactly; Eolis remained part of me, just as you are while you still live.’ He put a hand on Mihn’s shoulder. ‘Come on, we both need sleep.’ He gave a click of the tongue and in seconds Hulf was bounding from the dark edge of the village and running silently to his side. He followed Mihn inside. The scarred white-eye lingered a moment longer and looked around the empty village as a cool breath of breeze brushed his cheek.
‘I am no longer afraid of shadows,’ he whispered to the dark. ‘You hear me, shadow? Your turn to be afraid.’
A ghost of laughter danced out from the moon-shade of an old yew. Beside it the village’s shrine to Nyphal, God of Travellers, looked grainy and insubstantial, and no match for the darkness.
‘ No longer afraid? Oh my brave, foolish boy. You are enough to make a father proud, and who made you more than I? How you escaped Ghenna I do not know, but I am glad my plaything did not fall so meekly. What use will I put you to now? A daemon perhaps, risen from the Dark Place, against which I can rally the armies of the Devoted? A fool even, serving me without realising? Do you remember the words you spoke once to Morghien? “Life is for the living”, you said. Will you recall them at the end, I wonder?’
CHAPTER 12
Against a background of deep pink curls of cloud, knife-winged birds danced and swooped on their evening hunt. Larim watched their silent flight with rapt fascination, arrested by their swift, sharp turns and rapacious dives. The birds were as fast as any hawk he’d seen, moving with more haste than any fleeing insect could possibly require.
It’s what they are, he realised with a smile. They are born to fly at such speeds; they revel in their nature. te‘Few appreciate such a quality in a white-eye,’ he muttered just as Govin, his acolyte, appeared around the edge of the abandoned farmhouse.
‘My Lord?’ Govin inquired, hearing Larim’s voice, but the expression on the white-eye’s face made him drop the matter immediately. Govin was a man who looked in a permanent state of worry. He was only thirty summers at most but he was already balding, with just a few strands of hair dragged across his oversized head, and he had the air of a man beaten down by life. His rather feeble body and prominent ears prone to turn pink at a moment’s notice were coupled with no surfeit of intellect, giving him the charisma of something normally found under a rock.
‘The village?’
‘Ah, not the sleepy hamlet you hoped,’ Govin said quickly. ‘A company of soldiers are camped on the common ground there, and sentries are posted on the road.’
‘What sort of soldiers?’ Larim asked wearily. If you hadn’t been the only one of my coterie to survive, I’d have killed you the first night for being dead weight.
‘Ah, the banners say Knights of the Temples. It doesn’t look like a raiding party or patrol, though. Most of the soldiers are keeping together, and it looks like they’re taking orders from men in white.’
‘Ruhen’s Children?’
Govin bobbed nervously. ‘Could be; looked enough like them, certainly, and who knows what changes our defeat has brought about in the Circle City?’
‘Not you, certainly. So the Devoted and Byora’s little saviour have become allies? An interesting turn of events, to be sure.’
‘Why?’
Larim resisted the urge to slap the man across his uncomprehending face. ‘The Devoted? Originally founded as an army of the devoted waiting for their saviour to come and lead them in battle against the last king reborn. Men who might, in troubled times, be looking for a saviour to follow? Is this an alliance or have they declared Ruhen the fulfilment of their prophecies and leader of their entirely military order? If so — do they claim Aryn Bwr is reborn, or is there some other enemy of the Gods to crusade against? “Interesting” barely covers it, and still you ask why?’
‘But what is that to us? We’re leaving the West aren’t we?’
‘We are somewhat impoverished of late,’ Larim pointed out. ‘Money is no issue, of course; we just need to murder a few people for that, but who knows what sort of trouble might await us at home, our journey notwithstanding? Spending a few months in Byora is unlikely to make much difference to what happens at home, and we might yet profit from the time. Our soldiers will have to become mercenaries if they are to have any chance of returning home, and we might sensibly do the same, if the pay is better than gold. It will make us stronger.’
He straightened his robe, tattered and muddy though it was, and indicated the two laden horses tied to a nearby fencepost. ‘Bring the horses. It’s time we sought honest employment — or whatever approximation of it I can be bothered with at any rate.’
‘And if they attack us?’
Larim’s pale lips turned into a thin, lizard-like smile. ‘Then I’ll kill them all, of course.’
The farmhouse by which they stood had been recently abandoned, but he saw no signs of violence done there. Perhaps they had fled the Menin advance, perhaps daemons had taken them in the night; Larim didn’t care much. This nation meant nothing to him, and the rural eastern parts even less so. Rumour said the city of Narkang was a place of learning and magic, and Larim had hoped to take Narkang for his own private fief once Tor Milist’s mages had been slaughtered, but beyond the city there was nothing here to interest him.
Not bothering to wait for his none-too-deft acolyte to bring up the horses, Larim walked around the farmhouse and headed for the village. It was a warm evening and still bright, so the first sentry spotted him well
