Tom Lloyd: The ragged man

He continued on, taking careful steps alongside last night's trampled path, which had already compacted into treacherous ice. His bearskin was a leaden weight on his shoulders, but without it he would freeze so he bore it, and fought his body to keep the signs of hardship from his face. As he made his slow progress he watched carefully for discarded branches or stones that might trip him. Slowly an ache built in his chest, dull but insistent, wrapped around his ribcage like a serpent's embrace. He let out a grunt. His foot scuffed along the snow-covered ground and hit something, a yielding mass that rolled under his foot and pitched Venn to the ground. A tearing sensation raced through his chest, driving the wind from his lungs.

He cried out again, unable to bear the pain as purple stars burst before his eyes. The apprentice Harlequins were quick to run to his side. One feeble arm, unable to break his fall, was pinned under his body.

They were about to roll him onto his back when the priestess' stern voice cut the air. 'No, fetch a stretcher!'

Without thinking Venn pushed himself over with his free arm. The weight on his body had lifted without warning, the sapping ache of exhaustion that gripped his body vanishing into numbness.

Spirits below, am I dying?

The pain in his chest was gone; whatever had happened in the fall, now he felt nothing.

'Sweet Prince,' exclaimed the priestess as she hurried over. The apprentices stepped back from Venn.

She crouched at his feet and Venn lifted his head to look at her, puzzled. She appeared to be inspecting his boots – no, she was looking at the lump he had tripped on.

'It's a man,' she breathed.

Venn struggled into a sitting position, then looked down with wonder as he realised the ease with which he had moved. The apprentices stared at him with even greater astonishment and fear than they had before.

'A man?' he rasped.

She looked up, the face behind her half-mask of obsidian shards betraying even greater shock than the others. 'Master – Your face -? You look – '

'Reborn,' Venn muttered, realisation stealing over him. 'My faith has restored my youth.'

'A miracle,' one of the apprentices breathed. 'That fall should have killed you in your weakened state!'

Venn inclined his head. 'And yet my weakness has become strength.'

Paen turned to the figure on the ground, rolling the body over so they could see his face.

'He's not of the tribes,' she announced with alarm. These parts were remote and the Harlequin clans did not welcome travellers eager to discover their secrets. She turned the head to one side. 'These are feather tattoos; he was a priest of Vellern?'

'What?' screamed a voice in Venn's mind. 'What is happening?'

'He must have travelled a long way to reach us, but he died at the very entrance to the cavern,' Venn said softly. 'Hush your mouth, Jackdaw, let me think.'

'Is he Farlan?'

Venn peered at the dead body. There was no mistaking the face; it was the former Prior Corci, the monk dubbed Jackdaw by his new master, Azaer. The puckered scars where Azaer had ripped a handful of tattooed feathers from his cheek were clearly visible. Venn restrained the urge to laugh long and loudly.

'It appears so,' he ventured, thinking madly. 'Please, help me up.'

He allowed the apprentices to slip their hands under his arms and bear him upright, tottering a little for good measure before adopting the same hunched posture imposed on him for months. Acting was part of a Harlequin's training, and Venn shuffled over to the corpse as like the man who had ventured outside a few minutes earlier as possible. The strain might have been lifted from his face, but he'd quickly realised a more gradual return to his former strength would be safer. Jackdaw's magic had not dampened their ability to question.

'What was he doing here?' one of the apprentices asked in a whisper.

'What's happening? What has happened to me?' Jackdaw wailed in Venn's mind.

'Seeking me,' Venn said finally. 'The Land has sickened and men seek a cure to its ills. This man has followed his faith and given his life to call us forth.'

'Should we leave sooner than the Equinox Festival?' Paen asked.

Venn bowed his head. 'We will leave within the week. My time of testing is over; I will soon be strong enough to travel again.'

'Venn, I'm lying dead on the ground! ' Jackdaw shrieked hysterically, unheard by the others.

'So you are,' Venn said softly once the others were out of earshot, trying to hide the quick grin that stole over his face. 'Our master has quite a sense of humour.'

'Humour?' Jackdaw screamed, 'my body is dead! Merciful Gods, I'm trapped inside your shadow, and I cannot feel anything! I'm a ghost, a living ghost!'

'Living? Oh, I don't think so, my friend,' Venn replied.

'Far from it,' purred a third voice inside him.

Venn froze, an icy twitch of fear running down his spine.

'Morghien will so relish having competition for his title.'

'Spirits below,' Venn breathed, stumbling in shock. The priestess gave him a puzzled look but Venn ignored it, as he ignored Jackdaw's sobs of terror. On the wind there was a faint smell, one Venn recognised all too well: the scent of peach blossom… despite the winter snow.

'Indeed,' said Rojak.

Mihn stepped through the black doors and for a gut-clenching moment everything went dark. There was a distant boom as the enormous doors closed again. After a while he realised there was some faint light on the other side. At first he could see little, though he could feel the oppressive presence of a vast slope, stretching up ahead. The incline was shallow, and more or less regular, but it continued endlessly into the distance with nothing beyond. A hot, sour-smelling wind drifted over him, and Mihn felt very vulnerable and exposed as he took in the boundlessness of the place.

Behind him came a great rasping noise, accompanied by a stench so foul he found himself gagging even as he ran blindly for several hundred yards, not daring to look back. Ancient, brittle bones crackled underfoot, and an awful whispery sound was interspersed with faint sighs and occasional groans. Daima had warned him not to linger there, nor to look back, but there was little need for her caution: Mihn knew full well the rotting corpse of a dragon was bound to this side of the doors and he had no desire to look upon it. Bad enough that he would have to if he returned.

As he reached a chunk of rock twice his height that was protruding awkwardly from the slope Mihn stopped, realising the bones underfoot had given way to grit and dirt. As he paused to catch his breath he felt the heat radiate out from the rock. Now he dared to look at his surroundings and take in the sight of Ghain, the great slope which all souls must walk before they reached either the land of no time or the punishments of Ghenna.

The darkness was not so complete as he'd first thought, more a ghastly red tint, and little by little he started to see some detail of the immeasurable mountain slope. Nothing was clear, but at least he could discern where the bigger stones lay, and the cant of the ground. Here and there boulders punctuated the jagged, stony slope. He crouched and ran his fingers through the dirt at his feet. It felt gritty, almost greasy on his skin, quite unlike the sands of a desert.

There were a few stunted trees but Mihn knew this was not a place where any real life could be sustained. Up above was a roiling mess of smoke-clouds that looked positively poisonous, far from the sort that might provide rain. He started out towards the nearest tree, but after a few hundred yards he began to make out shapes around its base and as he got closer he could see something writhing in its crooked, dead branches… He turned away at once, giving the strange sight a wide berth.