before he had neared the village proper. Before he had even reached shouting distance, a pair of riders had galloped out past the picket on the road and, stopping well short of the white-eye, called out, ‘Halt! State your name!’
Larim scowled at that. Even though in a less than pristine state, his size and colourful patchwork robe should have made him unmistakable. Since neither of the riders appeared to be carrying a bow he continued walking. He could hear Govin huffing somewhere behind with the horses.
‘I said, stay where you are!’ roared one of the Devoted, a bearded young man with some insignia of rank on his shoulder.
‘I wish to speak to your commander,’ Larim replied, still walking, ‘and if I stop, he will have to come to me, surely?’
His Menin accent startled the pair and they backed away. The probable lieutenant barked something at his companion and spurred his horse back towards the village without waiting for a reply.
‘Apparently new to the Order,’ Larim commented over his shoulder, but Govin made no reply.
The other soldier moved to the side of the road as Larim approached. He was as young as the first, but with a harder face, for all his apprehension. He kept his spear-tip high, as though trying to avoid giving offence, but the white-eye ignored him and marched past, heading for the picket. A cart stood at one side, ready to be rolled back across the small bridge that crossed a little brook; he supposed the cart would provide some conceivable barrier to invaders, but the bridge was so small it barely warranted the name. Of course, the brook may be small enough for me to hop across, but some visitors might be less able to cross running water, he thought.
‘Where’s your commander?’ he demanded loudly, and right on cue an officer appeared with the bearded lieutenant, now on foot, trailing along behind.
‘I’m Captain Derral,’ the man replied, doing a fair job of not sounding afraid, ‘and you’re under arrest.’
The man looked Litse, Larim judged, and his stupidity sealed the deal for him. ‘I don’t think I am,’ he replied, ‘but I will travel back to the Circle City with you. I don’t intend to negotiate with a mere captain. I have an offer to put to your superiors.’
‘You’ll come with us in leg-irons and dosed,’ warned the captain, motioning to his soldiers.
The two on the picket levelled their crossbows at Larim and at last he did stop.
‘You’re Menin, and as such, you’re to be arrested or killed on sight.’
Larim sighed and was about to release the magic he’d been casually storing when another man appeared in view. This one was not of the Devoted.
‘Perhaps I can be of assistance?’ the man enquired, putting a hand on the captain’s shoulder, and the gesture was enough to make the soldier deferentially fall back and out of the newcomer’s way.
‘Oracle?’ he said in surprise, ‘my — my orders are clear: I have to arrest him.’
The oracle cocked his head at Derral. ‘In the interests of keeping you and your men from being slaughtered, might I suggest he be put into my custody instead?’
Larim watched the exchange with fascination, trying to work out who the oracle was. He wore a Harlequin’s patchwork clothes, but dyed black, and instead of a mask he had teardrops tattooed onto his face. That in itself should have been enough to warrant Larim hearing of the man, but it was clear he was a powerful mage too. Larim could taste the swirl of magic spicing the air around them, twisting uneasily on a breeze that failed to touch the grass between them.
‘Who are you?’ he asked at last.
‘Me? Just a simple storyteller,’ the oracle said with a half-smile. ‘I have many names, but you may call me Venn.’ He gestured for Larim to come closer. ‘Come, you can remain in my custody while we eat.’
Larim accepted in the invitation and accompanied Venn to the village inn, passing a sloped expanse of common ground currently shared by sheep and soldiers. The inn itself was set on a small rise and flanked by a pair of old spreading oak trees that provided the inn’s name. The road ran below it.
The villagers were gathered in small, nervous clumps to watch the Devoted soldiers pitch their tents, but as Larim arrived he saw a party of white-clothed preachers had started to collect each group and usher them to one side. They spoke respectfully but firmly, and the presence of the soldiers ensured there was no argument from the locals.
‘Have you experienced the peace Ruhen offers?’ Venn inquired as he offered Larim a cup of wine.
‘I have had little time for peace recently,’ Larim said, watching a new group exit the inn to look him over. He counted five Harlequins, a low-ranked Litse white-eye and a variety of armed men wearing various badges of rank and office from Akell and Byora. They all kept a respectful distance, watching him, not the preachers who were asking a similar question of the villagers.
‘Few of us have,’ Venn agreed amiably. ‘However, the time is coming for men to choose: Ruhen’s peace or King Emin’s war.’
‘I’ve fared badly with one, but now my thoughts turn elsewhere, beyond the problems of the West.’
‘Even a man with such obligations is well served to embrace peace. Ruhen’s message is one of clarity, of simplicity. I see hunger for power in you — a power rightfully yours, perhaps, but your eagerness to claim it eclipses all.’
Larim put down his cup. ‘I am a white-eye and Chosen of Larat,’ he said quietly. ‘The Lord of the Hidden Tower is power. My thoughts are not clouded; my whole being demands I return to the Ring of Fire and claim my position. Do not think I can be persuaded or turned — my devotion is to my art and no words could change that. Save your message for those for whom it was intended.’
‘The Hidden Tower is a long way to travel.’ Venn inclined his head to look past Larim and at the acolyte struggling along behind him. ‘Certainly in such limited company.’
‘My means are diminished,’ Larim confirmed, ‘and that is why I’m here. I know my worth to any ruler facing war, whether or not they espouse peace.’
Venn arched a practised eyebrow. ‘You seek employment?’
‘If you have something of true value to offer in payment.’
Venn was silent a while. ‘Such a thing could be arranged, but you would have to kneel to Ruhen first.’
‘A mercenary must know whose orders he obeys,’ Larim acknowledged.
‘Good. Your terms will be acceptable to him, I believe, and payment is assured by the fact we have currently have no mages of your skill.’ He reached into his tunic and pulled a chain from out around his neck, which he offered to Larim.
The Chosen of Larat inspected it carefully before accepting it. The chain and the coin strung on it were made of silver, but he could detect no actual spell on either, nothing beyond an echo of some presence — and even that was eclipsed by the strange swirl of magic surrounding the black Harlequin.
‘Wear this — show it to Sergeant Kayel and he will know we have met.’
‘What is it?’ Larim turned the coin over and inspected the scored lines on its surface. ‘Your runework needs practice.’
‘It is just a symbol, acceptance of our Lord’s peace. You need not wear it publicly, but few know of its use anyway. Not all Ruhen’s Children wear it. Kayel will know you have got this from me.’
‘Might he not think I killed you and took it from your body?’
Venn laughed, his voice unexpectedly high and strange, as though not his at all. His finger tapped his belt, which, Larim now noticed, had been custom-made to include a discreet pouch; he recoiled as a burst of power pulsed out from it.
Somewhere behind, Govin cried out in shock, causing the horses to startle.
‘He knows you would find that difficult,’ Venn said, taking his hand away from the concealed Skull.
Larim nodded. ‘Now I understand — but what are you doing out here, escorting a handful of preachers — and with Harlequins for company? Haven’t you just torn down every temple in Byora? So how are they here with you now?’
‘Ruhen is here to intercede with the Gods on our behalf, to perform the role that the greedy, vainglorious priests have failed to do. This is no war on the Gods, only on the dogma and vanity that fallible man has used to shade their light. The Harlequins understand purity of thought and action — that is the art they are devoted to — so they have embraced Ruhen’s message.’
‘Impressive, but you didn’t answer my first question. What are you doing out here?’
Venn inclined his head. ‘My apologies. I am bound for the West, tasked with something other than spreading Ruhen’s word.’ He paused and looked again at Govin as the acolyte struggled with their horses. ‘Does he follow you
