Tom Lloyd - The ragged man

Doranei frowned and tried to order his thoughts. He didn't remember dreaming of anything that would wake him so abruptly. Zhia's touch was accompanied by a memory of her perfume; this was neither, it was something unfamiliar.

'Think I'll go get some air,' he muttered.

Veil watched without comment as Doranei picked up his sword; unnatural happenings and strange sensations were familiar to the Brotherhood, as were overactive imaginations in the dark of night. However, the need for caution was ever-present, and confusion hadn't overridden Doranei's natural mistrust.

Doranei slipped out of the darkened hall and found himself in a moonlit corridor. He didn't know what bell it was, but the stillness indicated the depths of night. He looked around and as he shivered involuntarily, his hand closed around the sword grip… but nothing happened, so, feeling foolish, he released it again and buckled the scabbard properly to his waist.

He still felt better when he was holding the sword. King Emin's belief that Lord Styrax would not use subterfuge to win this battle was small comfort in the dark hours of the night.

Magic had always been feared by the common folk; its use in battle was accepted, but few generals made their name off it. Styrax might have the advantage there, with his awesome powers, but his plans extended further than mere victory. Intelligence reports were coming in all the time: four Menin armies of ten to fifteen thousand men were destroying great swathes of the Narkang nation as three of them made their way towards Moorview Castle. Each army comprised soldiers from all his conquered cities, most particularly the remnants of the Chetse elite known as the Ten Thousand.

Part of the reason for bringing them here was to keep the vanquished troops under control – if they were ravaging King Emin's lands, they would not be fomenting rebellion in their homeland. But that was not the whole of it: Lord Styrax had amassed a larger host than ever before for a more fundamental reason. Forty thousand or more men were marching on Moorview to take part in the battle he wanted every bard to sing of for centuries to come.

Somewhere up ahead Doranei heard the scuff of a shoe on the flagstone floor. He started to draw his sword – and stopped, struck by the sight of the black blade in the darkness. The provenance of the sword he'd taken from Aracnan's corpse was unknown, but it was certainly old and powerful. In daylight it prickled faintly with tiny sparks of light. Now it was more like the night sky on a clear night, casting a very faint light of its own. He sheathed it again, suppressing his fascination for the time being. When he reached the corner of the corridor he stopped and peered around it. He saw no one, but whispering voices were coming from somewhere at the far end.

This was the opulent part of the castle, away from the servant's quarters, and there were long, narrow rugs running down the centre of the corridors. A wide variety of paintings, both portraits and landscapes, were displayed on the walls, and ahead of him Doranei could see a large map of the whole area covering one wall. It had been painted by Countess Derenin, the lady of the house, and was accurate enough that the king had consulted it often in the past few days. The local suzerain's family was an ancient one which had managed to adapt and thrive under King Emin's rule, unlike many who didn't understand the art of compromise and had been eclipsed by the king's ambitious supporters.

Doranei walked silently on the rug until he was almost at the end. There he stopped, feeling horribly exposed, as another deep voice joined in. He heard the words clearly, though there was a thick stone wall between them; the voice echoed in Doranei's head without hindrance or distortion, though it was quiet and sounded strangely far away. It made his teeth ache, and as he winced at the sensation his bruised head increased its throbbing, sending flashes of pain down across his eyes.

'You ask me to put myself in the power of others.'

Doranei covered his ears, but it made no difference – the voice was not loud, only penetrating, and his hands felt as insubstantial as the walls. He could hear nothing but the words – no cadence or accent to place the speaker.

'What did you think would happen?'

He recognised that voice; it was Lord Isak, more focused than he had been earlier that day. Whoever – whatever, Doranei realised – Isak was talking to, they had made him forget his pain, for a little while at least.

'It cannot be permitted.'

'It must,' whispered a third person – Mihn – urgently, 'there is no other way.'

'Find another.'

'No,' said Isak. 'You cannot command me; that much I know.'

The white-eye sounded strange to Doranei and after a moment he realised it was the lack of antagonism in his voice. The spark of aggression, that fire within all white-eyes, had been extinguished within him.

'You invite catastrophe – you do not understand the forces you play with.'

Isak laughed, although it was more a strangled wheeze. 'I have nothing but the scars of understanding. I was born to command, born to change.'

'This will be done,' Mihn added, 'and you must play your part.'

There was a long period of silence, and Doranei waited with his fists clenched tight in anticipation of the echoing voice in his head.

At last, 'What of the Ralebrat? They will not heed my call.'

'They will heed ours,' Isak said.

'They are not to be trusted.'

'The service I ask is great. They must be rewarded for their losses. The price is forgiveness, long overdue absolution.'

The voice became no louder, but Doranei felt it press all the harder on his eardrums, an intensity born of outrage. 'You presume too much.'

'As is my lot,' Isak said, the weight of the Land in his voice. 'This Land shall be made anew, the cruelties of the past left behind.'

Doranei crept closer. Now he could see the door at the end of the corridor was ajar, a faint blue light spilling around its edges and outlining a dark figure. Though he was unable to make out any detail, Doranei still felt terrified, and the air grew thick and heavy around him.

'Some crimes haunt you still,' the figure said with cold derision.

Its face was hidden, but Doranei felt the force of its presence like the looming bulk of Blackfang, and for a moment he was sure the figure's words were directed at him, rather than Isak.

'There is a scent of vampire about these halls. Are you so sure of those around you?' the figure asked, and Doranei flinched, an icy ball of dread filling his stomach.

He backed off down the corridor and wasted no time in fleeing silently to the furthest corner of the castle, the panicked thump of his heart pounding in his ears.

Knight-Cardinal Certinse looked up from the pile of papers on his desk. The night was well advanced and his head was pounding. The hot summer's day had left his study stuffy and malodorous; the bunches of fragrant lavender and pepper grass hung over the door and windows had done more to add to the heavy atmosphere than relieve it.

His eyes drifted to the door that led to his bedroom; the thought of sleep was enticing, especially compared with tallies of import taxes. Certinse stood, reaching for the candlestick on his desk, but he was stopped by a muffled commotion from somewhere downstairs.

'What now?' he wearily asked the empty room. 'I'm too tired for another late-night chat with High Priest Garash.'

Abruptly the door opened and Captain Perforren entered, a worried expression on his face. 'My apologies, Knight-Cardinal, but a visitor has just arrived.'

'A visitor? There are still Menin soldiers outside the house, aren't there?'

'And men of the Devout Congress inside the door,' his aide added. 'They, ah, they didn't manage to stop your visitor. I think he has them confused.'