the spear into the soil, robbing him of his powers. As his clan had been slaughtered, he had wondered why they had refused his help. Now the old Lowman had explained it. Pride. A foolish Lowman emotion he did not possess or understand. They had thought they could beat the Hashon Jahar, whom they outnumbered threefold, but had lost.
Chanter's clan bond had not stipulated any particulars such as protection, only comforts for work. Had they asked him, he would have saved them, but instead they had ensured that he could not. After the battle, the Riders had ransacked the village, chasing down the women and children. Then the Hashon Jahar had formed up into their orderly columns and ridden out, trampling him. A passing steed's hoof had delivered the blow that had robbed him of his senses.
The stairs' creaking roused Chanter from his memories in the morning when Mishak climbed down them. He went to the basin and washed, lighted the fire, then fried bacon and eggs in a skillet. Chanter remained silent and still, knowing that the old man, like all Lowmen, hated him.
Mishak banged a bowl down beside his prisoner and untied the Mujar's hands, allowing him to sit up and eat. Mishak longed to question Chanter, but knew he would get few answers. Chanter's white teeth flashed as he tore at the tough bacon, reminding Mishak of another reason why people hated Mujar. A Trueman in his mid-twenties, as the Mujar appeared to be, would have yellow, decaying teeth, probably with a few missing. He sucked his own sparsely populated gums with a grimace. Mujar retained their physical perfection all their lives, and never became ill or suffered from bad bones or failing sight. Their only signs of ageing were the greying of their ink-black hair and perhaps a few lines on their faces. Mujar lived exactly a hundred years, never a day more or less.
The mystery of their origins still baffled even the wisest of men. Many theories were bandied about, the most popular being that they were the blighted offspring of the mad, wild women infected with the dreaded qulang disease. Young girls sometimes picked up this strange illness while foraging in the woods, but men never got it. The disease made them progressively more unstable until their villages cast them out to die in the wilderness. The theory was that these women mated with the legendary golden men of the hills and bore the strange male children, Mujar. How the madwomen raised the boys was a mystery too, for they seldom lived long in the wilderness.
Mishak finished his food and looked down at Chanter, who sat with his head bowed, the empty bowl beside him. With a groan, the old man rose to his feet.
'Untie your legs, then work. Clean the house, do the washing and cut firewood. Understand?'
Chanter nodded, and Mishak went outside to sit in the sun and warm his bones, but the chill wind nipped his nose and soaked through his clothes, forcing him back to the fire. He watched the Mujar work, fascinated by the strange, graceful way in which he moved. Chanter dusted and polished, his hands accomplishing separate and entirely different tasks with ease, as if they had minds of their own.
Some learned surgeons had tried to dissect a Mujar once, Mishak reflected, but the results had been predictable. Their subject had objected rather strongly to being disembowelled, and had used the Powers to protect himself. The surgeons had escaped with only a few burns and bruises, for Mujar were reluctant to harm others, even Truemen.
The Mujar mystery remained unsolved. Even torture could not force them to reveal their origins, and their tormentors had deduced that Mujar did not know. Fortunately they were sterile, and the women foolish enough to mate with them never conceived.
Mishak spotted Chanter heading for the front door and jerked from his reverie. 'Chanter!'
The Mujar halted, turning to face his captor. 'Yes, master.'
'Where are you going?'
'Firewood.'
Mishak glanced around. Everything was swept, polished and washed. He rose and approached the Mujar, who was a little taller, his hair almost brushing the lintel. At Mishak's nod, Chanter opened the door and stepped out into the freezing wind that blew up the valley. Muttering peevishly, Mishak donned his cloak and joined him, standing in the lee of the house, where he could watch the Mujar work.
Chanter plucked the axe from the block and fell to his task with a will. The pile of branches dwindled rapidly as he cut them into logs for the fire. Halfway through, he stripped off his torn leather tunic, sweat trickling down his chest. No scar marked it where yesterday the huge wound had been. The lean muscles of his torso rippled as he worked tirelessly through the morning.
Mujar would have made good slaves, Mishak mused, if only they could have been controlled. Chanter's name gave the old man enough power over him to ensure that he did as he was told while in Mishak's company, but not enough to hold him should he decide to break his gratitude. He must tell the Mujar his Wish soon, then Chanter was bound to fulfil it.
When Chanter had stacked the last of the logs, the old man followed him back into the house. The Mujar curled up on the floor before the fire, ignoring his captor. Mishak watched him suspiciously for a moment, but the Mujar made no attempt to reach for the flames. Chanter had completed the tasks that should have taken a whole day before mid-afternoon. Mishak took a ham from a hook under the rafters and hacked a few pieces off, sliced some bread, and joined the Mujar.
Chanter ate his share while gazing into the fire, apparently lost in thought. Questions burnt within the old man, but he knew the futility of asking a Mujar. He ate his lunch in silence, washing it down with home-made mead.
Chanter turned to him. 'Wish.'
Mishak sighed. 'Yes. My Wish. I have a son, twenty winters old. Last spring King Garsh's men press-ganged him into the army and took him away. I'm growing old. Soon I'll need him to take care of me. I didn't breed a son to die for King Garsh. You will find him and bring him home, Mujar.'
'If he's alive.'
'They couldn't have killed him already!' Mishak banged down his cup, slopping mead. 'His name is Arrin. He has red hair and brown eyes. Find him and bring him to me!'
The Mujar inclined his head. 'Granted.'
He rose fluidly to his feet, and the air swelled with a gathering Power.
Mishak grabbed the poker. 'No Powers in my house! Out, Mujar scum!' Mishak heaved himself out of his chair and brandished the poker. 'Fail me, and I'll curse your name! I'll send you to a Pit!'
Chanter backed away, turned to open the door and stepped out into the wind. Mishak followed, curious. Outside, a watery sun shone through grey clouds. The icy wind cut through his robe and soaked into his aged flesh, chilling his bones. He clutched the poker and gazed at the Mujar, now freed by the speaking of his Wish. Chanter stood poised, at one with the elements, the wind plucking at his clothes and hair. He raised his face to its icy caress, his perfect profile and pale eyes at once savage and beautiful.
Mishak sensed the swelling of a Power, and wondered which one Chanter would use. The Mujar took a few quick steps and leapt high, vanishing with a gust of wind and the sound of beating wings. In his place, a barred daltar eagle rose with powerful sweeps of long pinions. Mishak watched the bird until it was a dot against the sky's grey glare, then looked away with watering eyes. Ashmar. Chanter had used the Power of Air to change into a creature of that element.
Mishak shook his fist at the dwindling dot. 'You bring my son back, you scum!'
This was the main reason Truemen hated Mujar. They commanded the elements, and could perform feats that Truemen would describe as magic, yet they had the souls of beggars. They lacked pride, ambition, and even self-respect. Nothing could hold them. They vanished whenever they chose, taking on the form they required, for the only thing they seemed to value was freedom. They did not love, nor did they have loyalty or honour. They did not use their powers for good or evil, but lived their hundred years without purpose, content never to use the magic Truemen so envied.
Hill clans were the only people who sometimes struck bargains with Mujar when they found them. In return for food and shelter, Mujar would work in the fields or do menial jobs such as digging cesspits and graves. They would not fell trees, but they were not averse to chopping dead wood. Mujar seemed content with this dull existence, and would live out their lives without ever using their powers.
Mishak banged into the house, angry with himself and Chanter. Envy could eat a man's soul. He considered what he could do with just a tenth of a Mujar's power, and wondered why it was wasted on these pitiful unmen. When the first Mujar had appeared almost three hundred years ago, begging in towns and digging in the rubbish for scraps, Truemen had pitied them and given them food and shelter. Then some mishap had caused a Mujar to use
