has it, the gift responsible for the founding of our Order, given from the hand of the Blessed Lady herself.
All that day Ivanr knew of the army’s approach. He said nothing about it to the boy. Smoke and dust was a distant haze obscuring the higher valley. The hint of cook fires and the miasmic pong of stale human sweat and poorly cured leather made him wince; he had been a long time away from any human settlement.
He set camp in the evening, hobbled the mounts. The boy sat, arms tight around his shins, watching, silent still.
Not a word since leaving that pathetic village. Seeing one’s family butchered before one’s eyes might put a halt to discussion.
Yet look at me…
‘Hungry?’
No response, chin on knees, eyes big and hair unkempt.
Ivanr cleared his throat. ‘We have bread. Meat. Preserves. Care for some cheese?’
Nothing. A shudder from the gathering cool.
Ivanr sighed.
I have been alone in the mountains for a month and the one human being I choose to travel with won’t say a damned word. Serves me right, I suppose.
He set to gathering firewood.
While he collected the dry bracken and sticks, he called, ‘A man has only two hands, you know. Be nice to have a warm fire going by now
…’
He paused, glanced over his shoulder. The boy was watching him over his. ‘Never mind. Tricky business this, stalking twigs. Maybe when you’re older…’
He sat facing the camp fire, finishing off the bread; the boy stared back, the tear of dried meat that Ivanr had placed in his hand still there. Ivanr was waiting for the advance scouts of the force up-valley to decide they were harmless.
‘Am I evil?’ the boy asked, so sudden, so unbidden, that Ivanr thought someone else had spoken from the dark.
‘I’m sorry, lad. What was that?’
The earnestness of the boy’s gaze was a needle to Ivanr’s chest. ‘Am I evil?’
‘By all the gods true or false — no! Of course not. Who would say such a thing?’
‘My father did. When he gathered us all together. Ma and the little ‘uns. Said we were evil in the sight of the Lady and had to die for it.’
Ivanr stared through the fire between them. He felt his face darkening and a heart-squeezing pain. All the unholy gods. What can anyone say to that? ‘No, lad,’ he managed, fighting to keep his voice light. ‘That’s wrong. Your father was… led wrongly.’
He heard them approaching then through the rough chaparral. Encircling — at least they got that right. As the scouts emerged from the dark — two men and two women — the boy jolted upright mouthing an inarticulate yelp. Ivanr quickly crossed to set a hand on his shoulder. Beneath his palm the lad was shivering like a colt. ‘Who are you?’ Ivanr demanded, if only because they had said nothing.
‘Where are you from, Thel?’ one of the women demanded.
‘I’ve been farming. There’s a village beneath the slope here. They’re killing everyone. We fled.’
She studied him while the other three collected his gear and un-hobbled his mount. ‘Hey! That’s my horse.’
‘Not any longer,’ said the woman. She was hardly older than a girl. ‘Why did you flee?’
‘I’ve had enough of killing.’
That struck the woman as funny and she gave a derisive snort. ‘Then you should’ve kept to your fields, because you are now part of the Army of Reform.’
‘Reform? Who came up with that?’
The woman pressed the tip of her Jourilan longsword to his chest. ‘Careful, recruit.’ The lad’s eyes were huge on the woman’s sword.
‘You don’t kill your recruits, do you?’
‘Just the spies and infiltrators.’
‘I’m not the type.’
‘No? Then what are you?’
‘I’m a pacifist. I’ve renounced killing.’
Another derisive snort and the woman lowered her blade, sheathing it. She shook her head in disbelief. ‘A damned Thel pacifist. Now I’ve seen everything.’ She scanned the others. ‘We ready?’
‘Aye.’
‘Okay. Back to camp.’ She waved Ivanr onward. ‘Beneth might want a word with you.’
Walking through the night, a comforting arm over the lad’s shoulders, Ivanr wondered on that name, Beneth. Could it really be the same he’d heard so much of over the years? The heretic mystic of the mountains, hunted for so long. Had he now gathered to himself an army of followers? Or had refugees merely coaleesced naturally around him? The appearance of these scouts supported that theory: scruffy mismatched armour, no uniform. The possibility was troubling; he did not relish being pressed into an army of religious fanatics. He knew his history. There had been uprisings in the past, millennial movements, charismatics, schismatics, peasant rebellions. All crushed beneath the hooves of the Jourilan Imperial cavalry and the banner of the Blessed Lady.
Late in the night they passed between pickets and reached the army encampment. Here the woman stopped him. ‘Just you.’
The boy peered up, his brows troubled. Ivanr patted his shoulders. ‘He’s with me.’
The woman’s sour scowl, apparently her normal expression, eased into something like mild distaste. ‘We have a large train of followers. Refugees. Families. He can join the camp.’
It occurred to Ivanr that from all he’d seen so far this assemblage was nothing more than one bloated congregation of refugees, but he thought it imprudent to say so at the moment. He crouched before the lad. ‘Go with this girl here. She’ll take you to a family. They’ll feed you. Take you in. Okay?’
The boy just stared back, the crusted dried blood Ivanr couldn’t remove black in the dim torchlight. The eyes remained just as empty as before. Show something, damn you! Anything. Even fear.
He straightened, nodded to the woman. She took the lad’s hand. ‘Is he…’ and she gestured to her head.
Ivanr almost slapped the young scout. ‘No!’ He softened his voice. ‘He’s seen some terrible things.’
She grunted, dubious, pulled him away. The lad went without a sound. He looked back once over a shoulder, his eyes big and gleaming in the dark. It somehow saddened Ivanr that he should go so easily and he felt a stab of pain as he wondered if perhaps he’d been forgotten already. One of the remaining scouts gestured. ‘This way.’
The tent was large but no different from any of the others surrounding it. Guards stood before the closed flap. They searched him then waved him in. When he ducked within, the first thing that struck Ivanr was the heat, that and the bright light of a fire and numerous lamps. He stood blinking, hunched beneath the low roof.
‘Take a seat,’ said someone, a man. ‘You’re making me uncomfortable just looking at you.’
Squinting, he made out scattered blankets and cushions. He sat. ‘My thanks.’
‘So, you are just up from the lowlands.’
‘More or less.’
‘And what awaits us there?’
‘Chaos and bloodshed.’
A barked laugh. ‘You were just there, weren’t you?’
His vision adjusting, Ivanr made out three occupants. The speaker was middle-aged, bearded, well dressed in a tailored shirt and jacket of the kind once fashionable in the Jourilan courts. That and his accent placed him as a Jourilan aristocrat. The second occupant was a woman, thick-boned, dressed in a battered plain coat such as might also serve as underpadding for heavy armour. Her hair was hacked short, touched with grey, and her nose was flattened and canted aside, crushed long ago by some fearsome blow. He could not place her background — Katakan, perhaps. The last occupant was farther into shadows, a hump of piled blankets topped by an old man’s bald gleaming head, a cloth wrapped round the eyes. ‘What do you want with me?’ Ivanr asked. ‘I’m just a
