Chanter nodded, letting his head rest on the stone floor. Dolana seeped into him again, weakening him. The Lowman knelt and held the cup to his lips. Chanter sucked at the water, swallowed jerkily and coughed. The Power of Shissar flowed into him, bringing with it the agony that always accompanied a Mujar's healing. He convulsed, blood oozing from the wound in his chest.
The old man watched him writhe, looking alert, presumably for the first sign of another Power. A rush of wind and the sound of beating wings filled the room, and he kicked Chanter hard enough to make him grunt.
'No Powers!'
Chanter groaned and rolled onto his side to escape the old man's boots. He clawed at the floor, grimacing as he fought to control the wild surge of Ashmar that sometimes accompanied healing. The sound of beating wings vanished, and the man relaxed, sinking into the old wooden chair.
As Chanter's writhing calmed, the Lowman ladled stew from the pot over the fire and settled down to eat. The Mujar closed his eyes, and for some time only the scrape of the old man's spoon broke the silence. When it stopped, Chanter opened his eyes and sat up. His captor pulled an iron poker from the flames, and the Mujar's eyes followed it as he once again made the palm-up gesture.
'Gratitude.'
'Mujar.' The man spat into the fire. 'The eternally damned. Iron through the brain will hurt you.'
Chanter nodded.
'Name,' the old man snapped. 'The real one, mind you.'
Chanter lowered his eyes to the floor. 'Chanter.'
The man pulled open a drawer in the chest beside him and took out a quill, an inkpot and a scrap of parchment. Dipping the quill in the ink, he wrote the name on the parchment and threw it into the fire. Chanter coughed and collapsed.
The man nodded. 'Good. A good start. Lie to me, and you'll suffer.'
Chanter gasped, his chest burning as his name crisped in the flames. When it eased, he sat up again, folded his legs beside him and rested his weight on one hand. He kept his head bowed, so his dirty hair hid his face. The dried mud and gore that covered him was so thick it cracked when he moved, and an unpleasant graveyard smell hung about him.
The Lowman refilled his bowl and ate with slow relish. Chanter picked at the scabs of dried blood on the back of his hand to distract himself from his hunger. The oldster knew a little of Mujar ways, and was now in possession of the small amount of power over him that his name bestowed. Still, he was too weak to flee and, despite the Lowman's cruelty, he was indebted to him. Better just to sit and draw on Crayash for warmth, the Shissar the man had bestowed slowing the blood that oozed from his wound.
The Lowman prodded the Mujar with his toe. 'I am Mishak. You will call me 'master', understand?'
Chanter nodded.
Mishak grunted. 'When the raven brought news of a living soul amongst the dead I thought it was a man, not a damned Mujar. You, I'd have left till the rain or snow cured you. You have no real need of my help. Why send the raven?'
'Wish.'
'Speak to me, damn you, or I'll brain you with this poker and you'll suffer. I'll tell you my Wish when I'm good and ready.'
Chanter raised his head. 'I was pinned. Water would have trapped me.'
'Ah.' Mishak chuckled. 'Stuck forever to a mountainside with a spear through your chest, eh? Or was it a sword? No matter. Nasty thought, but no less than you deserve. Damned Mujar scum.' He leant forward. 'Well, you're at my mercy now. I have your name and your gratitude. You'll do as I say.'
The Mujar nodded again.
Mishak rose and went to the basin to fill another cup with water. Returning to his captive, he pushed the Mujar onto his back with a boot. Chanter braced himself as the stream of shining water fell onto his chest. Its touch made him writhe, and Mishak smiled. He sank into his chair again, watching the Mujar's suffering with evident satisfaction.
Chanter relaxed as the spasms eased, his gasps a painful wheeze through a dry throat. The wound in his chest had closed, and strength surged through him, along with the urge to escape. He could not leave, however, he had granted a Wish and must wait to hear it spoken. He sat up and bowed his head.
'I promised you comforts,' Mishak said, 'but you stink up my house. Go out to the well and wash, then you may eat.'
Chanter rose and headed for the door. In the freezing wind, he stripped off his clothes and drew water from the well to scrub away the rotting gore. He washed his torn garments and donned them again, using a knife he had picked up on his way through the kitchen to scrape the stubble from his chin. His wet apparel clung to him, but the cold did not bother him. Chanter re-entered the house, returning the knife to the table where he had found it. Mishak watched him from his seat before the fire, eating his stew.
He gestured to the pot. 'Eat.'
Chanter spooned stew into a bowl, and Mishak put his empty dish aside to study the Mujar. Although he had never seen one up close before, he knew the tales of their powers. He had learnt Mujar lore many years ago, but they were so rare now that he had never thought to see one. Chanter looked young, and possessed the wild beauty of his race.
'What happened to your clan?' Mishak asked.
Chanter glanced at him. 'Hashon Jahar.'
'Huh. Black Riders. I hear they've started invading the lowlands, too. They wipe out every man, woman and child in their path.' Mishak leant forward. 'Their leader is Mujar.'
Chanter concentrated on his food.
Mishak glared at him, then sat back. 'Why didn't you protect your clan?'
'They refused it.'
'Didn't want the help of a yellow monkey, eh?' He chuckled. 'What idiots, to die for the sake of pride. So how were you injured?'
'I went to the battle anyway.'
'Shows how stupid you are. I suppose you thought you'd be safe, being what you are, eh?' Mishak considered. 'Your clan thought they could win, didn't they? They chose to fight, rather than be saved by you. Fools, all of them, and you.'
Chanter's silence irritated Mishak, and he added, 'They could have used you. They had earned your help, why scorn it? Damned proud idiots.' He sighed and scratched his beard. 'I guess I should have known what you were, from the raven. No Trueman could have given it a message like that. A vision.' He frowned. 'Damned unpleasant, it was, too. Didn't know you buggers could do things like that. I guess I hoped…' He waved a hand. 'No matter. Tomorrow you'll work for your comforts until I tell you my Wish.'
When Chanter finished his food, Mishak ordered him to lie down and bound his hands and feet. The Mujar accepted the bonds with a frown, and Mishak doused the fire.
'Just so you don't get any ideas. No Crayash, and the Dolana will keep you quiet all night.' Mishak smiled. 'Yes, I know enough about Mujar to hold you to your promise. I also know better than to trust you. You were bonded to the clan, but you're not bonded to me. You've granted me a Wish for comforts, and you're going to keep it. It's important to me.'
Although Chanter did not relish the thought of spending another night in Dolana's grip, he had little choice. He might have pointed out that if he had wished to escape he would have done so already, but Mishak did not seem like the sort of man who would enjoy being informed of his ignorance. The old man took the lamp and climbed the creaking stairs to the loft, where he would sleep in the warmth that had gathered under the wooden roof.
Chanter suffered the discomfort of Dolana's creeping cold, remembering the battle on the snowy hillside. The shouts and screams of dying men echoed in his mind still. The melee had become a whirling confusion when the Black Riders had charged, lances lowered to skewer screaming victims on razor tips. He had been pinned to the ground, splattered with the blood of those who died around him and the mud kicked up by the Riders' steeds.
At the outset, his presence amongst the warriors had been loudly condemned, and the men had ordered him to leave the battlefield. He had hesitated, wishing to remain, and a warrior, incensed by his apparent defiance, had plunged a spear into his chest. The unexpected impact had knocked him down, whereupon his attacker had pushed
