Moments later he was riding away from The Dripping Tap. It was raining heavily but he didn’t think to shield himself from the elements. As rainwater soaked him to the bone, Ferast rode heedlessly into the night. The only cogent thought he had was that he needed to put some distance between himself and Headle. It wouldn’t take long for Klyff to discover Poppy’s body, and then every guard in town would be searching for him. He had no choice but to get as far away as possible.
…
Somewhere in the middle of the night, he came to his senses long enough to summon a shield to protect himself from the rain, but it didn’t make any difference. His clothing was soaked through, and the only way to dry off would be to get in front of a fire. He was still too near to Headle to stop, however, so he rode on in the dark, shivering violently in the saddle as the miles passed.
…
By the time morning came, Ferast was delirious, staying upright in the saddle through obstinacy alone. The sobbing had stopped hours previously, and he had ridden on in a trance, barely conscious of his surroundings. As the horse plodded onwards, the edges of his vision started to darken. Instinctively, he shook his head to try and clear away the impairment, but that just made it worse. Reeling with dizziness, he slid to the left. He grabbed onto the pommel to try and steady himself, but his grip was weak and he couldn’t stop himself from toppling. Darkness swamped his vision as he fell, and he didn’t even feel the impact as he hit the ground.
…
When Ferast came to, he was lying abed in a tiny, low-ceilinged room. Glancing up at the rough timbers above him, he had to assume he was in a peasant’s hut, and the bed he was lying on had clearly been made for a child. Ferast tried to push himself up on his elbows, but then memory came flooding back and he fell back onto the pillow.
Poppy! He remembered her delicate features, the way she hid behind her hair, her total fascination with him. Well it had seemed like fascination, but it had all been a sham. Or had it? Ferast lifted his hands and held them in front of his face, examining them as if seeing them for the first time. They trembled as he remembered her shattered body – the brutal result of his own anger.
Poppy had tried to tell him she had no choice – that Klyff forced her to sell her body. She’d also said that she really liked him – that it wasn’t an act. Ferast held those painful thoughts at a distance, glancing at them quickly, fearfully, and then aggressively banishing them. She had just been saying those things to try and save herself. She was a whore, and her ways had finally caught up with her. Practicing her manipulations on him had been a bad mistake – the last she would ever make. Yes he’d taken her life, but she’d deserved it. Ferast resolved never to doubt himself on the matter again. He’d been in the right, and that had to be the end of it.
Ignoring the feeling that some significant shift had occurred within him, Ferast forced himself to think about more practical matters. Clearly, someone had found him unconscious in the street and taken him into their home. He needed to get his bearings as soon as possible. He tried to push himself up on his elbows again, but he was much too weak to manage it. How long had he been unconscious?
“Hello?” he called out, his voice cracking from disuse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “HELLO?” Footsteps sounded from nearby, and the door to his room swung open. A stocky old man in workman’s clothes and heavy leather boots came in and eyed him with a proprietary air. He ran thick fingers through his expansive grey beard.
“So, yer awake at last,” he said. His voice was gravelly and heavily accented.
“How long have I been unconscious?” Ferast asked. “Thank you for looking after me,” he added, remembering his vulnerability. He still needed help from this old man, and a little politeness would help him get it.
“Yer welcome,” the old man said. “If a man can’t ’elp out a stranger in need, then he’s not much of a man in my book! You’ve bin ’ere been one, two, three days,” he added, counting them off on his calloused fingers.
“Three days?” Ferast said in surprise.
“You was righ’ banged up young’un!” the old man said. “Freezing cold and wet through. I’ve bin feedin’ you soup to keep you from starvin’!”
Ferast didn’t know what to say. He’d already thanked the man once, and he didn’t like the idea of being touched in his sleep, even if it was to feed him.
“You’ve bin mumblin’ some strange things in yer sleep, young’un,” the old man said, raising a hairy eyebrow and fixing him with an inquisitive stare.
“What things?” Ferast asked quietly. The old man may have gone out of his way for him, but he was straying into dangerous territory, and if he kept calling him “young’un”, he may come to regret it.
“Somethin’ about lookin’ for someone. You kept callin’ a name – Seston, I think.”
Ferast’s eyes narrowed. “Yes I’m looking for someone with a name like that,” he said. “I had reason to believe he might be in the Haunted Citadel, but I was wrong.”
“In the citadel?” the old man asked incredulously. “No-one lives in the citadel. Everyone lives in Headle – bin tha’ way fer as long as I can remember.” The old man shot him that inquisitive look again, clearly processing what Ferast had told him. “Why did you think this feller Seston might be in the citadel?” the old man asked.
Ferast considered telling the old man where to go, but then he shrugged. What harm could it do? “The person I’m looking for would only dwell somewhere that other people fear. I thought the Haunted Citadel might be exactly such a place.”
The old man opened his eyes wide in surprise, and then narrowed them again suspiciously. “I dunno what business you’d have with a man like that, but you got the wrong place, young’un!”
“I know that!” Ferast said in clipped tones. The old man was starting to get very annoying. He opened his mouth to tell him to get out, but the old man interrupted him.
“You should’ve tried the Ruins of Elmera.”
“What did you say?” Ferast asked quickly.
“Most dangerous place in Antropel,” the old man said knowledgeably, nodding emphatically as if to confirm his own statement. “Tell me about the ruins,” Ferast said quietly.
“Not now young’un. You need to rest,” the old man said. “We’ll talk later.” He turned to leave the room.
“No!” Ferast insisted. He tried to throw out a compulsion, but he was just too weak to cast the spell. “Please…” he said, resenting having to beg. “I want to know.”
The old man turned back, running a hand through his beard. “Well if it means tha’ much to you,” he said, pulling up a chair and sitting down by Ferast’s bedside. “The Ruins are up north, west of the desert but south of Namert. Used to live up there, you know. It’s always bin a rum place – haunted they say. And not like the citadel. I mean
really
haunted.”
The old man’s voice dropped to a whisper. “If folk go up there, they never come out. Was like tha’ in my Da’s time, and in
his
Da’s time too, but abou’ forty years ago, it got much worse. Before that’, folk used to stay away, knew wha’ was good for ’em, but all of a sudden they started disappearin’ from the villages. Sensible folk, who’d never ’ave gone up to Elmera in a hundred years, but everyone was sayin’ they caught the moon-madness or somethin’. They’d just up and leave, and walk righ’ into the heart of the old city. Not one of ’em came out again.”
Ferast’s heart was pounding in his chest. Unless he was very much mistaken, the old man was describing the location of Shirukai Sestin’s lair. Even the forty years made sense. The old man may not be remembering correctly, but that was about the time Sestin had escaped Helioport. The Ruins of Elmera simply had to be the right place! Ferast realized he’d stopped listening to what the old man was saying.
“So I shoved my belongin’s on a wagon and rode down south. Best decision I ever made,” he concluded. He must have detected Ferast’s excited reaction. “Young’un, whatever you think yer lookin’ for, the Ruins are best left alone! It’s no place for the livin’!”
Ferast flipped his head to one side in frustration, and then back again to the other. He finally had a real shot at finding Sestin, and he was too feeble to get out of bed! How long would he have to wait here for? Days? A week? There was no way that was going to happen! All of a sudden, an idea occurred to him. He’d never tried anything like it before – he’d never even heard of it, but it was worth a try. He knew that healers could give some of their energy to someone else to replenish their depleted resources if they were run down, but would it work the other way round – drawing someone else’s energy into your own body?
“What’s your name?” Ferast asked.
“Benn,” the old man answered.
“Come here Benn,” Ferast said, beckoning conspiratorially, as if he wanted to whisper something to him. Benn leant forwards, but he was still too far away. “Nearer,” Ferast said, beckoning once more, and Benn reluctantly leaned in another few inches. Ferast reached out and let his hand fall onto Benn’s wrist, trying to draw on the old man’s energy through the contact. He knew straight away that it was working. Strength started to flow up Ferast’s arm and into his body. If Benn had pulled his wrist back immediately, he might have managed it, but the first thing Ferast did with the stolen energy was to place a compulsion on the old man, stopping him from moving away.
Benn’s eyes widened in alarm. “What’s happening?” he asked, his voice shooting up an octave.
“Sorry Benn,” Ferast said, sitting upright and swinging his legs off the bed. “I need your energy.”
“Stop it young’un!” Benn implored, his face the picture of fear.
“Don’t call me that,” Ferast hissed, adding an extra layer to the compulsion to stop Benn talking. He wouldn’t kill the old man. He’d looked after him when he was unconscious after all, but he couldn’t have him coming after him either, or causing an outcry. As he continued to draw energy, Benn’s shoulders sagged and his body became limp, until the only thing holding him in place was the compulsion, and the last quivering efforts of his muscles. Sufficiently strengthened, Ferast stopped the draw. He stood up, stepped away from the bed, and then used his powers to lift the old man onto the bed. Ferast smiled to himself. It was an elegant bit of spell-work. Their positions were now completely reversed.
“In gratitude for your services, I am leaving you with your life,” Ferast said. Benn stared up at him in terror. “Don’t come after me, and don’t tell anyone what happened here. Understood?” Ben gave a slight nod, which was about as much as he could manage. “Good,” Ferast responded, summoning power and using it to cuff Benn into unconsciousness. He’d left the old man just enough energy to survive on. He’d sleep for a day or so, and by the time he awoke, Ferast would be long gone.
Ferast rolled away from the horse as it collapsed under him. Swearing furiously, he scurried f
urther from its heaving bulk. It was the same one he’d ridden into Headle. That old man, Benn, had looked after it while Ferast had been unconscious, and by the time he’d left Benn’s house, it was back in good health again. Ferast didn’t do anything to look after the horses he rode – he figured that was what stableboys were for. They took the saddles off and fed them, along with whatever else you were meant to do, and that was usually enough to keep them going. He supposed that was exactly the problem – he hadn’t passed through a settlement in days, and without stableboys to look after it, the horse had clearly run itself into the ground! The beast had clearly outlived its usefulness. He coaxed it to its feet and led the wobbly-legged creature into the nearby forest, where it drank deeply from a stream and fell asleep. It slept for hours, waking after night had fallen, and Ferast could see its condition was much improved.
He let it drink some more water before starting the torture. He’d experimented on many smaller creatures over the last few months, building on his first experience with the smallholder’s cat, but this would be his first really large animal. Turning his attentions to the horse, he brought all of that knowledge to bear, using the range of skills he’d acquired to prolong the animal’s exquisite agony. From the first panicked heave of its flanks to the last equine scream, Ferast lost himself in the frothy pink chaos of torture. He pinned it in place, shredding its nerves with summoned blades and releasing his hold on its mind just long enough for it to know it was in terrible pain, but not long enough for fear to induce a heart attack. He played with its mind, giving it comfort and then throwing it back into the fearsome maelstrom of its agony over and over.