He turned back to the house and gave a heavy sigh that seemed to begin in his feet and rise all the way up to his strange sweat-flattened hair. Then he shook himself abruptly and pushed aside the gate for the soldiers to enter.
‘Welcome,’ he intoned as each passed him. Mikiss felt a shiver run down his spine, as though some malevolent spirit had stroked the hairs on his neck and then fled. The fact that Nai carefully replaced the broken, rusting gate just confirmed to Mikiss that something unholy prowled the grounds.
A weed-infested gravel path led from the gate up to a tall studded door flanked by a pair of columns covered in rusty lichen and a vibrant green creeper that covered part of the building, obscuring several windows.
The rubbish and broken planks piled up on the doorstep led Shart to assume there was no way in from the front. He led the way round to the right, following patches of gravel that were all that remained of the original drive to the rear of the building. The fence was fifty paces or so from the house, yet somehow Mikiss felt crossing that distance would be a harder trek than it might at first appear. Buried in the undergrowth, partly swallowed by an untended rhododendron bush, he spotted a small stone housing, some two feet high, with some sort of metal grille at its entrance. Mikiss wondered how the people of Scree buried their dead and shuddered.
Around the back of the house was the first sign of habitation, a neatly swept courtyard surrounded by a low wall. The rest of the grounds remained wild and untended. One enormous pine overshadowed the area. Next to it were three smaller trees, just shy of twenty feet tall, spreading their spiky-leaved branches in a dome that reached almost to the ground.
‘Gentlemen, leave your packs here,’ Nai said, gesturing at the courtyard floor. He had barely finished speaking before four thumps indicated they had acted immediately. Nai smiled, noting that the soldiers might have shed their packs, but they had not cast off their weapons.
He crossed the courtyard and walked past the sun-blistered door to a large iron panel, almost five feet square, set at an angle on the floor. He gripped the thick iron ring, grunted in effort and hauled the panel up and open.
Mikiss noticed that the panel was more than an inch thick. He was impressed. Nai was neither tall nor particularly solid, yet he hadn’t been hugely taxed by the fortified cellar door. Clearly there was more than just strange feet to this servant; he would bear close watching.
Nai stepped back, a lopsided smile on his face and a triumphant edge to his voice as he announced, ‘Gentlemen, allow me to present my master, Isherin Purn.’
Looking into the cellar, Mikiss could see nothing at first, then outlines started to suggest themselves. The faintest of lights grew out of the darkness, not lamplight, but a strange green glow with no visible source. He made out steps leading down to a wide room, with a table, or maybe a bench further back, with smooth curved shapes upon it. He didn’t look too hard because at the foot of the steps was the silhouette of a man, quite still and silent, with that strange green light playing around his head and shoulders. Mikiss could not suppress a shiver.
CHAPTER 19
Fires danced in the twilight, the heat prickling his skin. Fragments of stone and brick under his feet made his footing treacherous as he picked his way down the street. Somewhere behind him he heard a scream, a voice he knew as well as his own -wife, lover, friend? He couldn’t tell. His memories were filled with clamouring voices, mingling in his ears, drowning each other out before he could identify any of them. Each one triggered a new wave of guilt, but faded before he could attach a name or deed.
In the distance came other sounds: people shouting, the splinter of wood, the groan of disintegrating walls, the high ring of steel meeting steel. The voice behind him screamed again and this time he turned to face a misshapen creature with blood on its claws and bodies lying at its feet.
Gripped with fury, he left his shining sword in its scabbard and leapt forward, mailed fists outstretched and reaching for the creature’s throat. They slammed together and spun off into the wall of a building that crumbled under the impact. They collapsed with it in a cloud of dust, still holding hard to each other. He felt the clouds massing above, growing in intensity and power; their strength filled his arms and he twisted his fingers around the creature’s wrists, feeling something snap. His thumb drove deep into the desiccated flesh of his foe.
The creature howled and broke its grip on him, scrabbling to escape but unable to evade his swinging fists. He connected, watched its chest crack and crumple like dried plaster struck by a hammer. He kicked out, smashing it to the ground, then used his own great weight to pin it down.
He roared with triumph as his fingers surrounded the paper-like skin of its throat and began to squeeze, harder and harder. It scrabbled ineffectually, beating at his huge shoulders to no effect, emitting a stifled whimper of fear.
His hands tightened, breaking bones and crushing its windpipe until the creature moved no more -and only then did he see the fear in its eyes. Only then did he look at its face and realise that during the struggle it had become his own face, haunted and afraid, even in death. He released his grip, stumbling backwards in horror from the armoured corpse that lay beneath him. As he retreated he fell, but there was no ground beneath him to stop him, only high banks of earth rising up on either side as he fell deeper and deeper. The light from the fires grew distant as he descended into the darkness of the grave.
Isak flinched, suddenly realising how fast his heart was beating. The dream that afternoon was a new one, wrecking his sleep as he hid from the relentless sunshine in the cellar of the house they had taken. It lingered in his memory even now, several hours after nightfall. He recognised the taste of fear in his mouth, the vivid images in his mind and the ghosts of sensation on his fingertips. This was no ordinary dream; the similarities to his long-standing nightmare about Lord Bahl’s death were all too apparent. Even in the hot night air he could feel Death’s cold touch on his skin. He wondered if this too was prophetic.
‘But what does it mean?’ he whispered to the night. ‘How could I have been fighting myself? I died, but the black knight wasn’t there. Is anything set, or has my corrupted destiny now turned me away even from that?’
He wiped a hand across his brow, feeling a slick sheen of sweat under his fingers. They had been in this city less than a day and already he was hating it. Even on the Chetse plains he’d never felt such heat. He didn’t need his Crystal Skulls to tell him that this was far from natural; every fibre of his being told him so. There was magic in the air; a bitter, dirty pall hanging over the city that made his head throb. He felt both light-headed and disembodied, and yet burdened by the weight of the Land. He found himself unable to separate one confused thought from the next and his foul mood only deepened.
He’d snarled at Tila for the crime of asking what was wrong, then found himself unable to say sorry -what started as an apology sent her away in tears, Vesna following swiftly behind, his expression thunderous. Only the forlorn look on Major Jachen’s face had spurred him to fix things.
The sound of shuffling feet pierced the miasma of thoughts: someone shifting in the shadows, just below his own vantage point on a stone walkway that had probably once been part of the old city wall. Isak’s hand went to his side and he wrapped his fingers around the unfamiliar handle of the mace he now carried. Eolis was wrapped in a bundle of cloth and tied securely to his back; they couldn’t risk it being recognised and the sort of mercenary Isak was pretending to be wouldn’t own such a fine weapon.
He eased himself forward and leaned out over the edge of the wall. There was a tense silence in the area tonight. Unless it was just a product of Isak’s own anticipation, the locals appeared to be aware that something was going to happen. Whoever was standing below him was the only person Isak had seen all night, other than his own soldiers and the two Brotherhood men who’d told him of King Emin’s plans.
He edged his way out, ready to leap back and strike, when he saw it was just a young man standing there alone. Strangely, he appeared to be looking at the same crumbling old house Isak was.
What part do you have to play in this?
Isak wondered.
Are you working for Emin? If not, what in the name of the Dark Place are you doing watching that house?
Doranei and his companion, introduced as Sebe, had told him the king had personal business with one of the men seen entering that house. Isak had joked at the time that he was attracting trouble again - after all, he’d been in the city but a few hours when he saw Doranei, hurrying back to his master with the news -but neither Brother had even smiled, and that spoke volumes. Doranei and Isak had spent more than a week together; Isak considered him a friend. But that afternoon he had been too preoccupied for anything but business, and their sharing of news had been brief, and it had ended almost as soon as Ilumene had been mentioned.
Isak studied the boy leaning against the wall: young, skinny, average height for a youth of fifteen-odd summers. No weapons.
‘A strange night to be taking the air,’ Isak said softly. The boy spun around in alarm, for a moment not seeing Isak’s face and then gasping when he did. ‘Getting a moment’s peace away from your family?’ Isak’s command of the language was not perfect, but it was good enough to be understood.
‘No sir,’ came the sullen reply.
Sir,
Isak thought with interest,
an odd way for a local to speak to a foreigner unless I look older than I think I do.
‘Then what are you doing? It’s a bad night to be out.’
‘Every night is a bad night in Scree,’ the youth said, ‘but I think I’m safe on the streets around here. Safer than you, anyway. ’
Isak gave a grin. ‘Really? I’d heard this was one of the worst districts for criminals.’
‘They’re just poor round here, not criminal -unless you think being poor is a crime.’ The youth gave him a defiant look. ‘But there are criminals out tonight, and they’re the ones I’m waiting for. They don’t much like white-eyes, so if I were you I’d go somewhere else.’
Isak thought for a moment. The youth had definitely been watching the house, but as far as Isak could tell, it was a derelict building -certainly nothing to interest normal criminals.
‘What’s your name?’
‘What’s yours?’ the youth snapped.
‘My name? Ah, Horman,’ Isak replied.
Now why did I say that? That’s not the name I’d agreed with Vesna. What made me think of my father?
‘Fine, if you say so. I’m Mayel.’
Isak reached out a hand. ‘Well, Mayel, how about you come up here and tell me all about these criminals.’ Mayel took a half-pace back as Isak’s massive arm loomed forward. ‘Come on; share a pipe with me.’
The promise of tobacco seemed to clinch it for the young man, who took a step forward and grasped Isak’s hand. The white-eye hauled Mayel up without effort and deposited him on the walkway.
‘Gods, you’re a big bastard,’ Mayel exclaimed when he saw Isak straighten up.
‘Easy there, you were calling me “sir” a moment ago.’
‘Sorry, bad habit,’ Mayel apologised, not mentioning which was the bad habit. ‘Just hadn’t expected it; you’re bigger than any white-eye I’ve ever seen.’
Isak ignored the point. ‘What’s that accent I can hear? Are you a local? It sounds like you’ve been educated, but you’re hardly dressed like a merchant’s son.’
Mayel plucked at the ragged clothes he had on. ‘I was a novice at a monastery, I got some learning there. What’s it to you?’
‘Just working out who I’m dealing with,’ Isak replied breezily. ‘Always best to find out beforehand. Here, help yourself.’ He offered his pipe and tobacco pouch and Mayel took them with delight.
‘So what are you doing out here?’ Mayel asked once he’d filled the pipe and lit it. ‘Have you enlisted with Mistress Ostia’s army?’
‘No, we’re escorting someone, some lord’s mistress.’ Tila had insisted on accompanying them and Isak hadn’t been able to dissuade her. He knew he wouldn’t hear the end of forbidding it outright, so in the end, he’d agreed that the White Circle would likely not harm a woman, and accepted her suggestion that she play the lordly whore being escorted by mercenaries in these troubled times.
‘One of those White Circle bitches?’
‘Probably,’ Isak grinned. ‘You should be careful what you say about them in strange company though.’
‘Ah, you’re not tied to them. I hear the only white-eyes the Circle have are ones they trot around on leashes. They don’t speak or piss without permission from their mistress.’
That drove the smile from Isak’s face. He’d come close to becoming little more than a pet of the Queen of the Fysthrall. Wondering how his life would have turned out if she’d succeeded was a sobering thought. As far as they could tell, he’d have been made to march his armies all the way to Tir Duria and lay siege to that fortress city, costing tens of thousands of lives. It would probably have been the ruin of the Farlan nation in the process.
‘So who does your mistress belong to? Someone powerful?’ Mayel asked, enjoying the pipe enough not to have noticed Isak’s changed mood.
‘Don’t know. Why do you ask?’
Mayel suddenly looked apprehensive. ‘I’ve been away for a few years,’ he said, hunching his shoulder. ‘I’m still working out who the people with power are.’
‘I don’t think he’s anyone very powerful, just a man who’s very fond of his pretty mistress.’ Isak pictured Count Vesna and almost smiled again. The man had looked constantly anxious since they had met up again on the border. He and his band of soldiers were bloodied and grim, drained by the weeks fighting Duke Vrerr’s cause. The reunion had been muted, and since then Vesna had rarely left Tila’s side.