Ralen and Marad shook their heads violently and followed Morghien over to what proved to be a tavern. Finding himself alone and the sole object of the woman’s scrutiny, Jachen beat a hasty retreat. The three soldiers busied themselves attending to their horses before they stretched out beside Morghien on the grass with pots of the potent local brew.
It was two hours before the witch appeared, arms bloody and a small bundle carried reverentially in her hands. She handed the dead infant to the sister, who bowed her head as she accepted her tiny charge. That done she crossed the green, not paying the new arrivals a moment’s notice, but before Jachen could call out to her to attract her attention, Morghien stopped him.
‘She’ll not speak to you, not yet,’ he said, gesturing for Jachen to rise and follow him.
The two men trailed the witch at a respectful distance and watched her wash her arms and apron in the river. Only when she rose from her knees and began to wring the sodden cloth out did Morghien allow Jachen to approach.
‘You come on a bad day,’ Ehla, the witch of Llehden, said in stilted Farlan.
‘At your order,’ Jachen pointed out brusquely.
She turned to face them and he found himself taking a step back at the look she gave him.
‘Not my order. Isak’s.’
Jachen stiffened. ‘Lord Isak is dead.’
‘He died,’ Ehla agreed. ‘Your loyalty died too?’
‘Of course not!’ Jachen growled. ‘What in the name of the Dark Place are you suggesting?’
‘That your service is not finished.’ She didn’t explain further but shook out her apron, draped it over her arm and headed back to the house. Jachen looked to Morghien for answers, but saw only amusement in his face.
‘Don’t give me that kicked puppy look,’ Morghien said dismissively as they turned to follow the witch. ‘I’m as much in the dark as you - just I’m more used to it.’
‘And not even the king knows why we’re here?’
‘There’s much Emin keeps from me, that’s what kings do.’
Jachen bit back his reply, knowing he’d get nothing useful from the strange man. He followed in silence, determined not to speak any more than necessary until someone gave him a few answers.
The witch didn’t stay long at the house; she checked first on her patient, then gave the sister a few stern instructions, rejoining the men a quarter of an hour later. She led them south at a brisk pace, ignoring the looks of alarm on the faces of those townsfolk they passed.
The path was little more than a rabbit run. After an hour the trees had become denser and the Farlan were forced to dismount and lead their horses. From time to time Morghien spoke to the witch in the local dialect, but her responses were curt. Morghien didn’t appear to be put off, but the witch began to ignore him and the wanderer was forced to get Sergeant Ralen to bring him up to date instead.
With every mention of fanaticism within the cults, Morghien’s voice betrayed a growing anger, one that Jachen had never heard before. Similarly, the news that Count Vesna had become the Mortal-Aspect of Karkarn was met with a snort of disgust, but it was news that a huge dragon had been awakened under the Library of Seasons that finally made Morghien fall silent.
As the afternoon progressed, a breeze picked up and Jachen realised he could smell smoke on the wind. He saw Ralen had noticed it too, and was similarly confused. The witch wouldn’t have left the fire burning at her home, so clearly she was leading them to someone - but who would she want them to meet in this backwater part of Narkang? But he was determined not to say another word until he got some answers.
At last the trees petered out and Jachen saw a lake stretching out in front of him, beside which was a cottage. To his complete astonishment there was a man sitting on a small jetty, fishing, with a grey-furred dog at his side. At the sound of visitors the dog turned and began to bark; the man twisted and hooked an arm around the dog’s chest. They walked cautiously, waiting for the man to quieten the frantic dog before risking getting too near, but at last the man released the struggling bundle of fur and jumped up to greet them, a welcoming smile on his face and a firm grip on the scruff of the dog’s neck.
‘Mihn?’ Jachen exclaimed.
The failed Harlequin gave a small bow before gripping the major firmly by the wrist. He wore a shapeless woollen shirt with the sleeves half-rolled up, exposing the curling trails of the leaf tattoos on each arm that ended at his wrist. For the hundredth time Jachen wondered what the tattoos and the runes on each leaf did. The dog danced around them, watching all three warily as it crept forward to sniff at their boots.
‘Good to see you again, Major,’ Mihn said, greeting Ralen and Marad before Morghien embraced him. ‘May I introduce you to Hulf? Toss him a strip of smoked meat and he will be your friend for life.’
‘When did you leave Tirah?’
‘Not long after the army, I had instructions to carry out.’
Jachen faltered. ‘Ah, have you . . .’
‘Heard the news?’ Mihn replied gravely. ‘I knew when you did.’
‘Fucking spawn of Ghenna!’ Marad yelled, dropping the reins of his horse and yanking his glaive from its sheath, and Jachen whirled around in time to see a shape retreat into the shadows of the cottage.
‘What was it?’ Jachen snapped, drawing his own sword as Ralen fell in beside Marad.
‘Some bastard daemon,’ Marad growled, his face white with shock, and advanced on the cottage, his glaive raised and ready to strike.
‘Lower your weapons!’ Mihn yelled, racing in front of Marad. ‘It is not what you think!’
Beside Mihn the dog crouched, muscles bunching as it snarled at the angry voices. The guardsman blinked at Mihn and stopped, but he kept his glaive high.
‘Not what I think? What I saw ain’t possible, and it’s damn sunny for that to be a ghost!’
‘Mihn,’ Jachen called warily, ‘what’s going on?’
‘Lower your weapons and back off,’ Mihn said firmly. He was unarmed but a steel-capped staff rested against the door just a few yards away. ‘Marad, I mean it - back away now, or I will put you down.’
‘The fuck’re you t’give me orders?’
Jachen looked at Mihn’s expression and grabbed the soldier by his collar. Without a word he dragged Marad back and Ralen followed.
Only then did Mihn relax and push the reluctant dog away towards the cottage.
While Marad still spluttered with anger, Jachen dropped his own sword and yanked the glaives from his soldiers’ hands.
‘Astonishing,’ Morghien murmured, as if oblivious to the confrontation, staring open-mouthed at the cottage.
‘His mind remains fragile,’ Mihn said in a quiet voice. ‘You cannot begin to comprehend the horrors he has endured. You will all compose yourselves, and you will not speak until I permit it, do you understand me?’
The three Farlan exchanged looks. Jachen agreed at once, but Marad, still stunned, remained silent until Jachen glared at him. Eventually both soldiers nodded while the witch, standing beside of the water, watched them impassively.
‘Better,’ Mihn said after a while. He collected his staff and gave Marad a warning look before stepping inside the cottage. The Farlan could hear soft murmuring, as if Mihn were coaxing the occupant out as he would a deer.
At first all Jachen saw was a huge stooped figure wearing a cloak made of rags, arms wrapped protectively about its body and head held low. Hulf ran straight to him, dancing around him with obvious delight before taking up a protective position between him and the soldiers.
Jachen could scarcely believe he was looking at a man. He was massive; even stooped he towered over Mihn, and he was far wider. One shoulder was dropped low, which reminded Jachen of men he’d known with broken ribs. Even when the man pushed back the hood of his cloak, the scars and the anguish on his face made Jachen the last to recognise him.
‘Gods of the dawn,’ Ralen breathed, sinking to his knees as though all strength had fled his body.
And in the next moment Jachen felt his heart lurch as the cold hand of terror closed about it.
The man recoiled - his timid movements so different to how he once was, but unmistakable all the same.
‘My Lord,’ Jachen said hoarsely, almost choking on the words as he dropped to one knee.
Isak looked at him and frowned, incomprehension cutting through his distress. ‘I don’t know you,’ he mumbled before wincing and putting his hand to his temple. ‘I can’t remember you.’
‘There are holes in his mind,’ Mihn explained, putting a hand on Isak’s arm to reassure him and draw him forward. ‘We had to tear out some of his memories.’
‘Why?’ Jachen found himself asking, fearing the answer he might receive.
‘Because there are some things no man should remember,’ Morghien said, as though in a trance, ‘some things no man could remember and remain a man. Merciful Gods, are you brave or utterly mad?’
He shivered and in unison Isak cringed slightly, screwing his eyes up tight before the moment passed.
Jachen didn’t even hear the question. He continued to gape, lost in the astonishing sight of a man he knew without question to be dead. Mihn brought Isak a little closer and now Jachen could see the scars on his face and neck, the broken nose and ragged, curled lip, the jagged line of his jaw and a fat band of twisted scarring across his throat.
His lord had once been handsome, for all the white-eye harshness, but no longer. If the signs of torture continued all over his body, Jachen couldn’t see how any man could have survived —
He felt his breath catch. No man could have survived it;
Isak
had not survived it. He had died on the field outside Byora, without these scars, or the broken look in his white eyes.
‘How?’ he breathed at last.
‘The hard way,’ Mihn said grimly, ‘and not one taken lightly. The rest can wait for later. Go see to your horses.’
Jachen didn’t move. He was still lost in the pattern of pain etched onto a face he once knew. Isak returned the look with difficulty.
‘I see you in the hole in my mind,’ he whispered, his scarred forehead crumpled with the effort. ‘I’m falling, but the war goes on.’
‘The war goes on?’ Jachen echoed.
Isak seemed to straighten at that, and Jachen thought he caught a glimpse of his former strength showing beneath the lost look on his face.
‘The war goes on,’ Isak said, ‘shadows and lords, the war goes on.’
‘Isak, perhaps you should rest?’ Mihn urged. He reached out and took Isak by the arm, but the broken white-eye ignored him.
With crooked fingers and awkward movements he pushed Mihn’s hand away. ‘No rest, not yet,’ he said, his face contorted as though every thought caused him pain. ‘Lost names and lost faces.’
‘You want me to remind you of people?’ Mihn asked, looking hopeful.
Isak shook his head and prodded Mihn. ‘I want you to tell me what it means,’ he said. ‘Tell me what it means to lose your memories, to lose
who
you are.’
‘Why?’
Isak prodded Mihn again, pushing him a few steps backwards, and this time Mihn glanced behind him to check how close he was to the water.
‘The war must go on. Someone told me once to use what I have inside me,’ Isak said.
‘I don’t understand, Isak.’
Isak’s face became a ghastly smile. ‘What I have inside are holes - and they’ll be my weapons now.’
King Emin walked stiffly up the stairs, a jug of wine in one hand and a pair of goblets in the other, a slender cigar jammed in the corner of his mouth.
‘Another long day,’ he commented to Legana who was ascending silently behind him, her progress slow and careful. She steadied herself with a hand on the tower wall and her silver-headed cane in the other.
‘It appears even a king must feel his age one of these days.’
Legana inclined her head and walked past as Emin respectfully held open the door to his breakfast room. It was a small room, and as sparsely furnished as the rest of Camatayl Castle, but it served the king’s needs. This was not a place for luxuries: almost every room now contained food stores or cramped bunks for soldiers.
There was a fire alight and chairs set for them on either side of it. Emin poured drinks once Legana was settled. Over the past few weeks the pair, both strong-willed and impatient with others, had found an accommodation that suited them both. Their common understanding of their extraordinary positions had turned into a cautious friendship.
‘Have the priestesses accepted your authority?’ Emin asked, tossing his hat aside and easing down in his chair. He idly brushed dirt from his boot while Legana wrote on her slate.
—
They ask many questions.
‘Questions you cannot yet answer?’ Emin nodded sadly. ‘As do my generals. They believe absolutely in the might of Narkang’s armies; defeat in battle has been a rare thing in my life, so they cannot understand my tactics now.’