released his enemy. He sagged, one shoulder over the parapet while blood spilled down his legs. He looked up, fighting back the pain to stare Venn straight in the eye. ‘You will always know,’ he whispered, ‘that only my vow saved your life.’
Venn didn’t wait to hear any more. His ruined wrist clamped to his chest, the black Harlequin spun neatly around and smashed a foot across Mihn’s face. His head snapped backwards in a spray of blood and then he was falling over the edge. Mihn fell, as limp as a dead thing, and disappeared.
Venn ran to the parapet and watched the dying man hit the lake with a dull splash. The black waters swallowed Mihn and closed above his body, the ripples of his impact lasting just a few seconds before the waves washed over them and erased any sign.
He stayed there a long half-minute, watching the inky surface below. It betrayed no sign of the man he had killed.
Eventually Venn nodded to himself. No man could survive that injury, he knew that with certainty. Even without the cold water and the exertion of swimming, Mihn would be dead in minutes from such a cut. Satisfied, he turned away.
No man of such skill deserves an audience when he dies, Venn thought to himself. It is best I did not see the light extinguished from his eyes.
‘ A sentimentalist still? ’ Rojak said in the recesses of Venn’s mind. The minstrel laughed softly as Venn caught the faint scent of peach blossom on the wind. ‘ I did not appreciate the honour when King Emin left me to burn.’
Venn tasted sour contempt in his throat. Rojak had been the first of Azaer’s most remarkable followers, but the minstrel had never understood true warriors, men like Ilumene or Mihn. There was a commonality that could not be explained to others; that went beyond the act of one killing another. Rojak had always been contemptuous of fighting men, thinking all those who killed on command were the same.
He had hunted you for years, and still he could not bear to watch that last spark fade, minstrel.
‘ Let us hope the creatures of Ghenna honour your friend so. I can hear their voices call out in the night. They sense a hunt is on. ’
Venn sighed and looked down at his right arm as the pain continued to build, one final reminder of the King of the Dancers. The break was bad; it might be a lasting legacy.
‘Go,’ he croaked to the hushed crowd behind him. ‘Get after the rest.’
CHAPTER 19
They arrived with the last rays of evening bestowing an orange halo on the great oak that spread its protective branches over the heart of the village. The village was quiet, but not deserted. Faces peered at them from several windows and a handful of children stopped their play at the stream to stare at the newcomers. Nearby a clutch of splay-toed geese waddled towards them, honking, which in turn prompted barks from somewhere out of sight, but instead of dogs racing out to circle the party of horses, they were swiftly quietened.
Child Istelian nodded approvingly and gestured for the riders to halt. He was a man of middle years who’d been a labourer all his life until the First Disciple had plucked him from the crowd and handed him a white robe. Istelian’s heart still soared at the memory: the approbation in Child Luerce’s eyes and that fleeting, electrifying smile on the face of the sacred one himself.
‘Captain,’ Istelian said softly. The soldier hurried to his side and Istelian granted him a benevolent smile. ‘You will wait for us here.’
‘Wait?’ Captain Tachan repeated in surprise. He was a burly, bearded Chetse, but there was no doubting his loyalty to the Knights of the Temples. ‘Sure about that? This is Narkang territory now; best my men check the village out first.’
Istelian frowned, the expression enough to halt Tachan’s protests. Twenty soldiers to command, the proud warrior heritage of the Chetse tribe, years of wearing a Devoted uniform — yet he found himself taking orders from a commoner. He chafed at the change, but Istelian was pleased to see him recognise his place.
We are remaking the Land, Captain, Istelian said to himself, and your noble lineage means little now. It is the pure spirits who lead, those without might or riches, and Ghenna shall welcome those who oppose our will.
‘These are poor folk, and pious, cherished by the Gods. They will welcome the message of our saviour.’
‘Certainly,’ Tachan agreed hurriedly. ‘I meant only that King Emin’s men might be hiding among them. Our enemies will seek to harm one as blessed as you.’
‘The Gods will see me safe,’ Ilstelian replied, dismounting. The remainder of the white robed preachers, seven in all, followed suit, and fell in behind their leader.
‘As Ruhen walked out to face the army of daemons, so I shall face our enemies without fear. The Child’s grace shall carry me through.’
‘But in case-’ The soldier didn’t get any further.
Ilstelian raised a hand and cut him off. ‘Come, Children of Ruhen,’ he said, holding his oak staff high, ‘let us visit peace upon these tormented lands.’ And with the rest trailing along behind he headed down the dirt track that led into the heart of the village. A long wicker fence served as the village perimeter, encircling the two dozen houses, while cultivated hedgerows penned several tracts of land beyond.
‘These are honest, Gods-fearing folk, ’ Istelian announced to his followers. ‘Their only loyalty to the distant king will be born of fear.’ He passed through an open gate, crossed the bridge and walked onto the common land, where a cluster of villagers were already awaiting him. Istelian walked up to them, observing the apprehension on their faces with a slight satisfaction. His stature was clear to these people, his purpose obvious in every step he took.
‘Good folk, may I ask the name of this village?’ Istelian asked them loudly.
The villagers glanced at each other like nervous sheep, before one found the courage to speak up. ‘Tarafain,’ said the youngest man, a broad shouldered individual with a rolling local accent.
‘How can we help you, sir?’
‘ Sir’ — these people know their place.
‘I seek the village elders. I would speak to you all of peace.’
The farmer’s eyes widened and he pointed mutely towards a stone fronted building, clearly a tavern, on the far side of the green. There were a handful of people sitting outside and watching life in the village pass by.
With a curt nod to his guide, Istelian continued on.
The tavern was the only two storey-building in the village; blackened beams protruded out from lime-wash walls and smoke rose from a chimney at each end of the building. A youth lounged at the stable door, watching them with an insolent expression on his face.
‘You are the village elders?’ Istelian enquired of the four lounging outside the tavern door.
A middle-aged couple were sitting furthest from him, with an old crone on their right and a greying man opposite her. The elder two seemed to be scowling at him; the woman through poor eyesight, the man perhaps due to the mug of beer he gripped.
‘I’m the headman,’ the younger man said in a deep voice. At last he did stand, and offered a bow of sorts. His wife jumped up beside him, but the other two made no such effort. ‘Hesher Vres at your service.’
‘I am Child Istelian,’ he said, inclining his head to return the greeting. ‘The Gods have favoured me to number among the ranks of Ruhen’s Children. I would speak to you and your vil lage of peace.’
‘Got enough o’ that already,’ the old woman croaked. ‘Don’t need no more; be off with you.’
Istelian turned to regard the crone. She lacked the tattoos or charms he’d expect of a witch, but he knew in rural places those too stubborn to die were permitted much freedom to speak.
‘And you are?’
‘A woman who’s seen enough o’ this Land ta know we don’t want nothing from the east.’
Istelian sniffed. ‘You have no wish for peace? You would prefer King Emin steals your sons for his army of daemons? Are you a heretic?’
The old woman hissed and rapped her knuckles on the tabletop. ‘My sons died in the king’s service,’ she screeched, ‘and I’ll have no false priest diminish their sacrifice!’
