Vosh finished his last cup of wine and wondered what he was going to do now. The booze had numbed him nicely and made it almost possible to forget his fears. He was not a coward. He had fought alongside his kin in the High Hills and seen his share of slaughter, but he was afraid now.
Well, not exactly afraid, he thought, more ashamed. It was not the prospect of pain and death that frightened him so much as the thought of having to face his kinsmen after taking the Queen’s betraying crown.
Vosh was a hill-man and proud of it, and that was one of those things hill-men just did not do. It was like finding your sister alone in a room with a man and then not cutting that man’s dick off and stuffing it in his mouth. Actually it was worse. He knew in his heart of hearts that no matter how bad that bastard wizard Alzibar had been, and no matter what Shadow worshipping shit he had been up to down in that mine, he should not have gone to the Terrarchs.
But what else could he have done, a small part of his mind argued? His own clan were so intimidated by the wizard and that bastard Zarahel that they were going right along with him, like a pack of fawning mongrels, and that was wrong.
So what if Alzibar had known all the ancient words of brotherhood that predated the coming of the Exalted to this world? So what if he had known of the prophesies of the Secret Priesthood and told of how they would be fulfilled and the ancient ways return?
Vosh still had not liked what they were doing. Herding those folk into the mine had been wrong. Giving those women and kids to demons had been wrong. A man was supposed to protect women and children. That was what Vosh believed anyway. And if the rest of his kind did not see things that way, it was them who had forgotten their honour, not him, no matter what anybody said.
He thought about Weasel. The bastard had not been so snotty when he found out that Vosh knew about the books. Vosh had been waiting back in the shadows down in the mine when he had heard them talking their treason. They had almost spotted him but he had just managed to duck back out of sight. Now he needed to think about what he was going to do with that information. Who would it be worth most to: the Terrarchs, their Inquisitors or the men themselves? He would have to be careful. The Foragers were too damn quick with their knives. He had better not plan on walking down any dark alleys any time soon. Of course, he would not do that. He was too smart.
The thought reassured Vosh and restored some of his confidence. He decided he would have one last cup of wine and then head for bed. He’d been drinking all day, and all day yesterday and this lowlander wine was strong stuff. He was starting to feel it.
He looked up and saw one of the loose women was smiling at him, as if she wanted to join him. He knew it was his money she really wanted but that was all right by him. He would get fair value in exchange. He made a small circling gesture with his hand, and she slid into the booth beside him. Almost immediately her hand was on his leg, moving up to massage his crotch. Nothing happened down there which was understandable given how much he’d had to drink.
“I could make you hard,” she said, wetting her lips with her tongue. There was a faint trace of the hills in her voice. It was not that surprising. Many women ran away from the harsh life of the mountains and became whores in the lowlands. By the Old Gods though, she was a beauty “I know a right good way to do that.”
He smiled and gestured for her to take a drink. She might well be able to, he thought. They would see to that later. “I want to finish my drink.”
“I can wait,” she said. Even in his drunken state Vosh noticed her looking round the room. He thought he knew exactly the calculation she was making. She could wait and get money from him, or she could find somebody else who would pay her right now. The rooms upstairs were rented by the hour. On a good night she could hope to turn several tricks. He knew by the way her smile widened when she looked back at him that she had come to the same conclusion as he had. Tonight was not a good night. It was the Mourning Time, and the brawl earlier had driven a lot of men out. There were too many girls chasing too few customers. “Take your time.”
“I always do,” he said with an insinuating leer. He was starting to feel better. With the girl’s warm presence so close, and the wine burning in his gut, the fear was receding a little. One thought brought it back. Those stupid bastard soldiers had got the sorcerer but they had missed Zarahel. He shook his head and cursed. The would-be Lord of the Clans was a worse madman even than the wizard. If Zarahel ever suspected who had betrayed him… Damn Foragers could not even take him with the help of a wizard.
It was not entirely their fault. The Prophet had the Old Gods on his side. Vosh had to admit that the Prophet frightened him. He, who feared nothing save the Princes of Shadow, had felt his bowels turn to water whenever he contemplated the Prophet. It was not natural that any man should study sorcery. That was Terrarch work.
“You’re looking very thoughtful,” said the girl. “Want to talk about it?”
“Nothing that would interest you, lass. Man’s thoughts.”
“I can think of one thing that interests me,” she said. Her knowing fingers slid up his thigh once again. He drained his glass of wine and gestured towards the stairs. “Lead the way,” he said.
Vosh lay on the bed, naked, drunk and stupefied with satisfaction. The girl had done all that she promised and then some. Considering the amount he had had to drink that was impressive. He gave her a couple of extra coppers to let her know how pleased he was. She nodded, a little tensely and got up to leave. As she dressed he noticed a small tattoo on her shoulder, one that looked vaguely familiar. Where had he seen it before? There was something about it that let him know he ought to be worried.
She saw his glance and dressed quicker, heading for the door swiftly. He felt a sudden surge of fear. Some of the clansmen, Zarahel’s closest followers had gotten tattoos like that. It might have been just coincidence but Vosh had lived too long by his wits to want to let it go at that.
“What’s your hurry?” he asked, trying to spring forward and grab her. Unfortunately the booze had slowed him and left him clumsy. His legs slid on the blanket and he fell sprawling to the floor. She opened the door and he caught sight of something that paralysed him with fear. A massive figure, robed and cowled like a priest stood there and behind him were a couple of familiar faces from the hills. It looked like he had been noticed after all. The girl must have been in on it, he thought. She had lured him up here.
Vosh opened his mouth to shout for help, but the cowled figure made a gesture and Vosh’s lips locked and strength seeped from his limbs. A swift cuff sent Vosh sprawling onto the bed. His head reeled from the power of the blow. Stars danced before his eyes. He felt drunkenly sick. Before he could do anything his limbs were restrained by brawny arms. He struggled with all the strength of his fear, but could make no headway. Suddenly, knowing he was doomed, he relaxed.
The robed man pulled back his cowl, revealing Zarahel’s face. What was he doing here, Vosh wondered? Why had he left the hills? Had he come all this way just to find Vosh?
“That’s better,” Zarahel said in his low, resonant voice.
Vosh sat up right and shot the girl an accusing glare. She had the good grace to look a little ashamed. Zarahel caught the look and glanced at the girl. “You may go, Marla,” he said conversationally. It had all the force of a command.
Vosh glanced desperately at his kin. He saw no mercy in their stony faces. Finally because he had to, he forced himself to look at Zarahel. The Prophet was a big man, not as big as that Barbarian idiot but just as broad across the shoulder, and thick around the arms. He radiated an aura of physical power, and something more, a confidence that bordered on insanity.
He was a good-looking man in a craggily fierce way. His blonde hair was wavy and only starting to grey, his jaw square and firm covered in a cropped salt and pepper beard. The grin he gave Vosh would have been engaging if slightly crazy had it not been for the eyes. There was something dead about them, something that told Vosh that he was just another piece of meat, to be carved up at whim. They were eyes that held not the slightest trace of human sympathy.
“I don’t have a lot of time,” Zarahel said in a tone that suggested Vosh was an old and valued friend. “So I shall make this quick. I want to know what became of Alzibar’s books.” He made a gesture. The numbness left Vosh’s limbs. He found he could move his lips again. He caught the scent of Zarahel then, and it sickened him. The smell was a strange sick thing compounded of old blood, rotten meat and something else, something worse.
“What books?” Vosh asked, confusion warring with his fear. His voice came out very quietly almost in a
