‘I am no priest,’ Istelian replied smoothly, ‘and I know your sons served their king faithfully, but it is this king who now betrays those he should protect.’
The older man growled and drained his beer. ‘Better watch your tongue, boy — some folk round here won’t take kindly to you bad-mouthing the king.’
‘I know the thrall you are under, the fear of his armies you all feel.’ Istelian threw out an arm to gesture back the way he had come. ‘But I bring peace in my wake — the word of Ruhen to set you free, his servants to stand beside you against the tyranny of the great heretic.’
‘Great heretic?’ the man echoed, rising from his seat to glare at Istelian eye to eye. ‘That’s the twist o’ your dogma now, is it? Make him out to be Aryn Bwr?’
‘Ruhen’s peace will free you all,’ Istelian insisted. He stepped back and raised his voice so those inside the tavern, no doubt listening intently, could clearly hear him. ‘Ruhen will free you from the cares of this Land, free you from the tyranny of war that has so plagued us, and drive off the daemons that continue to torment us.’
‘Hah!’ spat the old woman, jabbing a thumb at her fellow doubter, ‘he’s already seen those buggers off.’
‘You have faced down daemons?’ Istelian asked, astonished by the outrageous claim.
‘A few,’ the old man confirmed with a deepening scowl. ‘So what’s this peace you offer then? Might it be the rule of the
Knights of the Temples rather than Narkang? Tribunals and inquisitors? Religious law and counter- insurgency? How many’ll die while you enforce your peace?’
‘How dare you make such claims?’ Istelian spat. ‘Ruhen is the emissary of the Gods and I am his mouthpiece. To question me is to question the blessed child, and that is heresy of the foulest kind.’
‘Not allowed questions under your peace, eh?’
‘Honest devotion to the Gods is Ruhen’s way. To accuse and undermine, to whisper and lie, that is the work of daemons and all such heresy must be rooted out.’
The old man scratched his white stubbled-chin. ‘Aye, thought as much.’
Istelian felt the fury erupt within himself; it was all he could do not to strike the man down where he stood. ‘Henceforth this village is under the protection of the Knights of the Temples!’ he declared loudly, ‘and you are all now subject to the laws of the Gods. Rejoice, people of Tarafain, you are free from the tyrant of Narkang and protected by the peace of Ruhen!’
He spun around and snapped at the nearest of the Children behind. ‘You, summon Captain Tachan; inform him there are heretics in his village!’
‘Heretics?’ the old man mused as the Child ran back the way they had come. ‘Well, I must admit, Lord Death weren’t so happy to see me last time He did.’
‘Silence!’ Istelian bellowed and backhanded the old man across the mouth. ‘You dare speak of the Chief of the Gods in such irreverent tones? Headman Vres, this man is a poison thorn within your community. Assemble the village. His re education must be witnessed by every man, woman and child.’
The old man slowly spat a gobbet of bloody spit onto the ground at his feet. ‘Now that weren’t so peaceful.’
‘You are a heretic!’ Istelian hissed, grabbing him by the arm. ‘There can be no leniency shown to the enemies of the Gods — the daemon within you must be scourged from your body!’
The old man gave him a blood-tinted grin. ‘Daemon? Not quite.’ His weathered face twitched strangely, his cheeks shuddering as though something was fighting to escape from within. A white patina appeared on his skin, the lines around his eyes smoothing away as his brow softened and become narrower.
Istelian staggered back into his remaining attendants, one hand raised protectively. ‘What magic is this?’ he screeched. ‘You are damned! Sold to some creature of the Dark Place!’
‘It’s more of a loan,’ the old man said, his voice higher now, almost feminine, ‘and I believe “Goddess” is the appropriate term.’
The man’s pale, ghostly colour increased with every word and as he stepped forward, the fading light seemed all the more pronounced. ‘You claim to speak in the name o’ the Gods, but you know nothing of them,’ the man said in a voice that cut the air like the crash of thunder. ‘The shadows in Ruhen’s eyes are born of Ghenna’s darkness, and I’ll not leave this village to fall under the rule of a shadow. We don’t submit to shadows here.’
Istelian gaped, looking left and right in his astonishment. Faces had appeared at doors and windows, the ignorant rustics all staring at him without any of the respect due to him.
‘You will hang,’ he croaked through the deepening gloom of evening. ‘It’s a crime against the Gods to speak such things. Your tongue will be torn from your mouth and fed to the dogs — your eyes will be put out, your body driven onto a stake. All these torments await you in the next life, and so they will be visited upon you in this one too.’
The sound of running feet seemed to spur him into movement and Istelian straightened up. ‘Captain…’ The words faded in his throat as he saw only one figure approaching.
‘Child Istelian!’ the captain called, sleeves flapping as he made up the ground. ‘They’re gone — the soldiers, all gone!’
The old man stepped forward, a knife appearing from nowhere. Quick as a snake he slashed open Istelian’s cheek, and the preacher fell back with a cry But the old man didn’t follow up his assault; he just stood before the table with a satisfied look on his face, his knife still at the ready.
‘Looks like your soldiers have learned to fear the ghosts of dusk,’ the old man said evilly, ‘but I think that’d be too easy for you. So let’s find out how strong your faith really is, how much this peace of the shadow’s really protects.’
He grabbed Istelian in a surprisingly powerful grip.
Despite his desperate efforts, he couldn’t break free, and when a second man, barefoot and dressed all in black, took his other arm, Istelian felt the strength drain out of his body. He was dragged back to the gate, and beyond it he saw the horses they had arrived on, those of the preachers and the Devoted soldiers too, all riderless and whickering nervously. The old man and his fellow daemon-worshipper took him past the horses and tossed him down into the dirt beside the road.
‘See the trees?’ the evil old man rasped, his face shining with what looked to Istelian to be a terrible delight. ‘The light’s fading now. Might be you start to see eyes, appearing in the shadows below them.’ He grabbed Istelian’s hand and slapped the bloodied dagger in it, closing it around the grip.
‘There’s your path, back through the trees. Lead your preachers that way and protect them with the peace you offered these folk today. Best you run, though — see if you can outrun ’em — for I swear on my tarnished soul you’ll suffer if you ever come back here.’
He gave Istelian a shove with his boot and sent him sprawling in the dirt.
‘Go!’ the old man roared. ‘Run back to your shadow and tell him we’re coming for him next!’
Vesna watched his friend slump against a tree and sink to the ground, his weight pushing the tip of the black sword a foot into the earth. Their makeshift camp was quiet, a full night and day of travel enough to drain them all. Hulf crept up to his master’s thigh, instinctively wary of the terrible weapon Isak held.
‘Isak,’ Vesna began before tailing off. He squatted down in front of the scarred man and tried to make Isak look at him, but the white-eye stared forward at nothing, while his left hand idly stroked Hulf’s back. The dog’s ears were flat against his head; his whole manner had changed, for he felt the loss of Mihn as deeply as the rest of them.
‘You’ve hardly spoken since we left Vanach,’ Vesna said at last.
In the failing light Isak’s right hand looked excessively shadowed. Perhaps it was just the comparison with his bone-white left, but to Vesna the skin looked darkened beyond the shadows of deep scars. The Mortal-Aspect’s eyes were constantly drawn back to the black sword in Isak’s hand. Nartis’ lightning had burned the colour from Isak’s left arm, imbued the skin with its own colour. Who could say what effect the Key of Magic, Death’s own weapon, might have?
‘There’s nothing to say,’ Isak said, at last looking up at him. ‘He’s gone.’
The sun had gone down and the broad canopy of the fir trees under which they sat advanced the gloom further. Fei Ebarn was in the process of setting a fire while Zhia teased forth the shadows of the forest to hide its light. Isak’s face was blank, drained of anger or any form of animation; that was what Vesna feared more than anything in a white-eye: dull, passive acceptance.
‘You don’t know that,’ Vesna tried, but Isak didn’t even bother responding.
