Morghien scowled. ‘There’s only one sort of wisdom they recognise.’
‘ The sort you intend to grant, ’ she replied, her voice fading on the wind as the minor Aspect receded to the back of his mind, waiting to be called upon.
He waited for the travellers to come closer before bothering to move. When they spotted him two soldiers were sent on ahead, the scarlet sashes bearing the Runesword of the Devoted their only insignia. The men looked local, stocky, with tanned skin, quite unlike the Raland men who’d been brought here, which meant their efforts to recruit had not been in vain.
‘Who’re you?’ one of them called from a dozen yards away. Neither carried crossbows, Morghien was pleased to see, but their spears still had the reach over his own weapons, and several of their comrades behind had arrows nocked. They both wore stiffened leather armour and ill-fitting helmets and had shields slung over their backs — not regulation Devoted kit either; it made Morghien wonder how disciplined these recent recruits were likely to be.
‘Name’s Morghien,’ he replied with a wide, welcoming smile — an expression many had commented looked sinister and unnerving on his weatherbeaten face. ‘I’m hear t’speak to your preachers.’
‘The village is only a couple hundred yards away,’ one pointed out. ‘Hear ’em preach with the rest.’
‘Oh, I think I should do so before that happens.’
‘Why?’
‘I might not like what they say,’ Morghien replied cheerily. ‘The debate’s half the fun, I reckon, but not everyone agrees.’ The soldiers both levelled their spears immediately, and glanced around at the trees on either side as though expecting an ambush to be sprung. Morghien waited patiently while exactly nothing happened.
‘You’re a rare breed of fool,’ advised one of the men while his comrade beckoned their officer over.
‘You don’t know the half of it, friend,’ Morghien said, ‘but I’m one brings wisdom with him.’
‘Wisdom?’
‘A little knowledge — that dangerous thing your preachers seem to fear.’
The soldier frowned, bemused by what he was hearing, but a few moments later his superior arrived and he gladly stepped aside, though he kept his spear levelled, clearly expecting the order to run Morghien through at any moment.
‘Troublemaker?’ asked the man with a captain’s insignia badly stitched to his sash.
‘Madman,’ was the response. ‘One who don’t like Ruhen’s Children much.’
The captain looked around Morghien towards the village. ‘Damn. They’ve been watching out for us. Well, friend, looks like you’re screwed. I was going to kill you quick, but now the villagers have come out to play it looks like you get the public execution — not so quick.’
‘I do like an audience,’ Morghien replied, gesturing down the road to where the villagers were watching nervously at the boundary stone. ‘Shall we?’
He set off without waiting for a reply, not wanting the captain to remember prisoners should be disarmed before they came quietly.
‘Hey, you! Wait there.’
Morghien turned, but kept walking backwards, a quizzical look on his face. One soldier hurried forward to catch him up, but in his haste he didn’t keep a proper eye on the ageing wanderer. Morghien lurched forward unexpectedly and grabbed the shaft of the man’s spear, pulling it past him as he aimed a heavy kick at the soldier’s leg.
The soldier fell, dropping his spear in surprise and Morghien hammered down with it onto his chest, hearing a rib crack before he reversed the weapon and hurled it at the second soldier. He tried to dodge, but succeeded only in letting the spear scrape across his breastplate and slice into the unprotected inside of his arm.
‘To arms!’ the captain yelled over his shoulder, affording Morghien plenty of time to draw his weapons and advance. The second soldier was still clutching the gash in his arm, when Morghien reached the captain and deflected a wild swing before burying his axe in the man’s knee. He finished him off with a thrust to the throat and let the body fall between him and the remaining soldier, who was half-beheaded as he lurched around the corpse.
Morghien stepped behind a tree to afford himself some protection from any rash crossbow bolts that might come his way. The villagers coming down the road had clattered to a halt at the sudden violence, but now they stared aghast at the felled bodies. Two of them dropped to their knees at the sight.
Not the usual reaction, Morghien thought to himself as the soldiers behind started to shout in panic. I’d have thought they’d scatter from any sort of fighting.
‘Murderer!’ shrieked one of the lead villagers, ‘heretic!’
Great, one of those.
His attention was soon caught by screams from the main group of soldiers. He peered around the tree in time to watch the last of the crossbowmen shot.
‘About bloody time,’ he muttered, walking forward without haste while Farlan Ghosts rose from their leafy hiding-places to attack.
A flash of copper caught the light as Shanas, former devotee of Fate, joined the fight, the tattoos on her bare arms blurring as she slashed the nearest Devoted’s thigh. They were outnumbered two to one at least, looking at the fifty-odd soldiers in the column, but a dozen fell to the glaives of the Ghosts in their first charge.
Morghien ran forward and released the power of the Crystal Skull at his waist. The misty form of Seliasei swooped out from his body, buoyed by the sudden rush of power, and reached for the nearest terrified soldier, while three more insubstantial figures followed.
The black jagged shape of the Finntrail ran jerkily along the road, and hooked the leg of one Devoted, dragging him to the ground. A slender wolf-shape darted past it, leaping at another but passing straight through the alarmed soldier, while a grey hawk clawed at the eyes of the next. Though too weak to hurt the man directly, the wolf spirit’s flowing mane of fur filled his eyes for long enough for a Ghost to take the soldier down; he followed the wolf’s path and battered aside the next man’s spear before chopping across his face. Blood sprayed high as the man fell backwards, just as a spear thumped into the Ghost and downed him.
The Ghost flopped back, keening with pain as the spear jerked clear and blood poured from his side. His nearest comrades responded by calling out their battle hymn. Seliasei caught his killer’s spear-shaft and tossed it aside as the words were taken up by the remaining Ghosts. The Devoted soldier was dragged from his feet amidst a roaring invocation of Nartis’ rage, then the dark Finntrail spirit pounced again.
Morghien caught up to the fighting, stepping into Shanas’ lee as the athletic young woman danced past less nimble opponents, never stopping, never getting into a test of strength with the men she faced. Shanas slashed at arms and legs with cruel accuracy, and when they turned to follow her path, Morghien chopped and stabbed in her wake, magic flooding through his limbs to add force to each blow.
The Devoted were boxed in: the Farlan Ghosts pressing in on both sides and a pair of black-clad King’s Men blocked the road behind. Splinters flew as the brutal glaives shattered their shields, men howled and whimpered as they sought to run but were given no quarter. Morghien saw the cowering preachers ahead, one shouting an incoherent prayer as Seilasei rose up before them on a column of flowing mist.
Faced by a minor Goddess rising radiant in the dappled light, the leader of the preachers broke off his beseechings and stared open-mouthed. She looked down at him pityingly, smoky trails of hair moving in a breeze he could not feel, and stepped forward. With the power of the Skull within her, Seliasei’s face now possessed a light and texture Morghien had rarely seen before. The curve of her breasts was more than a suggestion in the dim light, the smooth lines of her belly opaque and alluring.
‘Daemon,’ the preacher gasped as though it were his dying breath.
‘No,’ Seliasei said in a voice like running water, ‘I am a daughter of Vasle, born of the divine. And you: you are my enemy.’ With a movement so elegant it seemed like a caress, the Aspect cupped his face in her hands and looked deep into his eyes for a long moment — then she snapped the man’s neck with barely a twitch of exertion.
The Ghosts cut down the last of the soldiers and put the remaining preachers out of their misery with brutal efficiency. When all the enemy were still, they saw to their own, dispatching those too injured to help, then moved on to search for valuables, supplies and any weapons worth taking.
Morghien watched them with a chill on his neck. No matter how many times he had done the same — food or arrows were always important to an inveterate wanderer — he still lacked the seamless transition between warrior and scavenger that veteran soldiers possessed.
