The Ragged Man (39 page)
Authors: Tom Lloyd
Before he went to find Tila, Vesna knew he had one more person to see first. It would take a division of Ghosts to drag him from her side once he was there, but she would understand the delay — indeed, when Vesna went back out onto the training ground, he caught sight of her face, and the little wave she gave told him she had anticipated his next mission.
Amidst the chaos of the training ground it took him a while to work out where to go. He knew Carel was a typical soldier, however long ago he had retired from the Ghosts. In grief they tended to go silent or loud, and drunk in both cases. Even after he’d lost his arm in battle Carel had been a formidable presence in the palace, never more comfortable than when he had a drink and an audience. With his world turned upside down, Vesna guessed the veteran would go the opposite way and seek out silence the way Vesna wanted himself.
‘But he’ll want to work; a man like that can’t sit still for long,’ he said aloud, starting off across the training ground as servants and soldiers parted before him.
The palace forge was the closest of his choices and when Vesna ducked his head inside and peered through the smoke he realised he’d been correct. None of the few men within looked like a marshal, but he spotted Carel’s swordstick propped against a wall.
As he closed the door behind him Vesna felt a tremor in his eyes as they adapted with unnatural speed to the gloom. By the time the door was shut he could see perfectly clearly.
This was the main weapons forge, and Vesna could see it was running at full capacity, in anticipation of the Guards’ losses. Keeping three furnaces and six anvils running day and night was gruelling work, not allowing time for idle talk. Vesna saw Carel at the back, working in unison with another man. They weren’t doing the finesse work, that was left to the skilled smiths, but even a one-armed man could lift a hammer and beat a lump of steel.
‘Change it,’ said Carel’s partner when he noticed Vesna standing behind them.
With a reluctant exhale, Carel let the hammer slide through his fingers. As he took the tongs, he noticed Vesna for the first time. Carel looked ragged in body and soul: sweat- and grime-stained, his white hair was grey with dirt and tied back with a fraying strip of material. His blood-shot eyes looked empty.
‘Thought your count was off,’ he said to his companion in a hoarse voice.
To Vesna he said nothing, but there was no need when the pain and years were plain on his face. The count felt a sudden pang of fear in his belly. He realised he had no idea what to say to the man who had been a father to Isak.
Carel watched him hesitate and gestured to his partner to continue, turning the steel shard to the correct position. When the man did so Vesna realised the fingers of his right hand were frozen in a twisted grip and he was using his left: another damaged veteran, he assumed.
‘You were there?’ Carel called after three blows with the hammer.
Vesna shook his head. ‘He ordered me to lead the army away. He died to save us all.’
Carel’s expression darkened. ‘Rode a long way to do that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean we should’ve seen it’d end that way an’ stopped the boy.’
Vesna took a cautious step forward. ‘Carel, he was Lord of the Farlan; the choice was his. It wasn’t one he took lightly, I know that much. It was a risk he thought worthwhile, and no one would have been able to persuade him otherwise.’
‘Really?’ Carel snapped, glaring up at Vesna. ‘Used to joke the Gods set me on the Land to keep that boy out o’ trouble. Don’t seem like a joke now, just a failure.’
‘You couldn’t have stopped him,’ Vesna said firmly. ‘His mind was made up.’
‘What if I helped him make it? What if he made those choices ’cos of advice I gave him?’ There was a waver to Carel’s voice that betrayed the guilt hanging over him like a leaden cloud.
‘When did you ever know him to do anything but what he wanted?’
The old man looked down. ‘I told him to face what he feared — an’ if he feared anythin’, it were those dreams of death. He knew they weren’t just dreams.’
‘Carel, he wanted to strike at his enemies before they were ready, he wanted to take his destiny in his own hands and not let others dictate to him. The only fault to bear is mine and Lahk’s, for not seeing how the battle was going to unfold.’
‘Then maybe I blame you too!’ Carel roared suddenly, his voice loud enough in the enclosed space to stop the smiths mid-stroke. ‘You left that field greater than you were, as blessed by the Gods as he once was! Isak was barely grown, for all his size, alive for fewer years than you been a professional soldier. Aye, he were a wilful shit at times, but he always wanted to be more than the colour o’ his eyes. He trusted
us
to keep him so!’
us
to keep him so!’
He turned away, staring into the wincing heat of the furnace, and Vesna could see Carel’s whole body shaking. The only sound was the scrape of steel on the anvil’s surface.
‘We failed him,’ the veteran continued in a much quieter voice. ‘We din’t stand in his way when he needed us. His blood’s on our hands.’
Carel looked at his palm as though looking for blood, and seemed to notice for the first time how hard his hand was shaking.
‘Leave me be, Vesna,’ he muttered, ‘I got work to do here an’ I can’t do it like this. Go find your bride. She needs you, not me.’
Karkarn’s Iron General stared at the ageing Ghost and felt the words dry in his throat. It was nothing he’d not said to himself on the long journey home, but to hear it from the mouth of another was completely different. To hear it from someone who’d loved Isak so deeply cut through his armour like a burning shard of light, scorching the hardened soldier’s heart with frightening ease.
He felt himself stumble as he retreated, the weight on his shoulders even heavier now, hot shame gripping him as he fled outside. Only then could he breathe again, but it did nothing to ease the guilt rekindled inside him.
Mihn stopped in the woods and looked around. The gentle clatter of rain on leaves surrounded him, drowning other sounds — but for a moment he thought he had heard something, a faint noise ... something out of place that set his palms prickling. After a while he realised he was holding his breath and relaxed, a wry smile on his face.
‘I’m getting jumpy in my old age,’ he muttered, starting off down the rabbit-run again. Hanging from his belt was a young hen pheasant, the fruit of a good morning’s hunting. It felt good to be fending for himself again, brushing the dust off skills he hadn’t used in a while and becoming less dependent on the locals.
What little silver he had brought with him had been enough to buy fowl for egg-laying. The witch appropriated half of everything he trapped as payment for the food she brought — just as well, now rumours of the ragged man had spread throughout Llehden. Few would come near the lake now.
Mihn wound his slow way back to the lake, checking each of his snares as he went. As he came out from the trees he saw Isak standing at the shore, staring over the water, Eolis drawn and by his side. He wore a long patchwork fur cloak the witch had brought, old and ragged enough to frighten Chera if she ever returned, but still serviceable.
The white-eye stooped badly, his left shoulder dipping as though the lightning-scarred arm was a lead weight, and his head was permanently hunched forward. The damage done to him in Ghenna had turned him old before his time: as old as the hollow look in his eyes.
Mihn hurried over, but he saw nothing at Isak’s feet, nor any blood on his blade. The sky had remained dull all day, though the rain had lessened to a desultory smattering. ‘Isak? Is all well?’ he asked anxiously.
The white-eye didn’t move. His eyes were fixed on the distant shore, though he wasn’t looking at anything in particular; his mind was further away. The fitful breeze did little to disturb the surface of the lake. A flock of black-necked gulls hovered over the northern edge where ducks and geese squabbled.
Everything looked peaceful enough to Mihn. Isak’s pup was watching them sleepily from the small shelter outside the cottage Mihn had built for him. The hound, finally named Hulf by Isak, tired easily still, his exuberance outlasting his enthusiasm. Even if he had been chasing the geese grazing too close to the cottage, it shouldn’t have been enough to drag Isak outside.
‘I dreamed,’ Isak said at last, his voice distant.
Mihn’s heart sank. Despite Ehla’s best efforts, Isak still had more memories than were good for him, and his dreams were rarely pleasurable. ‘What of?’
‘An empty house by a lake. A cold house.’
‘That is all?’
‘I woke in the cold house. I couldn’t remember my name. It was all gone — who I was, where I came from. Only the lake was real. The lake and the smell of mud on the wind. I was a ghost, empty and . . .’
There was silence as the pair stood side by side on the shore — until an abrupt bark from Hulf brought Mihn back to the present and he turned to encourage the oversized puppy over to them. He crouched down and draped an arm over Hulf’s back.
‘I couldn’t move. As cold as the lake,’ Isak continued, oblivious to Hulf’s snuffles of pleasure as Mihn rubbed his ears. ‘I was dead, but still standing.’
‘He is gone from you, Isak,’ Mihn said, looking up. ‘You need not think about Aryn Bwr any more. You are free of him and his influence.’
‘Still I dream.’ Isak scratched the stubble on his cheek, then looked at his fingers, as though shocked at the state of them. The end joint was missing from both middle and little fingers, and the rest bore ragged scars from struggling against his chains. Quickly he lowered his hand, slipping it protectively under his armpit and shuddering as his body remembered the pain.
When he composed himself once more, he crouched also, reversing Eolis to keep it well clear of Hulf’s inquisitive nose. ‘I dreamed daemons came. To the cold house with chains in their hands. They came for me and I killed them. Their blood stained my hands and feet. It reminded me who I was. In the blood I remembered my name.’
Mihn looked at Eolis again, but the sword was spotlessly clean. ‘It was only a dream, Isak; it did not happen. There were no daemons, the cottage is warm and cosy, and you are not alone. You are safe now.’
Isak nodded, his face caught between a grimace and a smile. ‘Safe,’ he echoed with a hollow whisper, ‘but is it me I remember? Aryn Bwr’s name remains in one place — the prison in Ghenna made for his soul. They wanted him to feel that pain again and again. Is the pain I feel from my scars, or from forgetting a part of me?’
‘That I cannot answer, my Lord,’ Mihn said, bowing his head in grief. ‘But here I remain, to remind you of the man you were and the life you lived. We knew this would be the hard choice, the terrible choice, but it had to be made.
‘You have broken the prophecy; the threads of history that bound you are all parted. You are free of it now, free to choose a new path — free to stop those who would have used you to their own ends. And you will never be alone in this. I am with you to the end.’
‘But how can I trust you?’ Isak asked with a curious, twisted expression Mihn could not identify, ‘when you’ve not even noticed Hulf eating your pheasant?’
Tila trotted down the stone steps of the main wing and looked around. Vesna was not in sight and a flutter of alarm began in her heart. It had been an hour since she’d seen him head out to the forge to speak to Carel. She was under no illusions about Carel’s grief; she had broken the news herself, and held him while he sobbed. Still, he’d been a long time.
Just the memory of Carel’s fury and pain made Tila want to weep. The veteran understood death better than she. Even now Tila could barely accept Isak was dead; it seemed impossible, unthinkable. That seven-foot lump of muscle and foolishness hadn’t been like the rest of them. Ever since returning from the battle of Chir Plains Isak had possessed an unnatural quality, some spark of vast power at odds with mortal life.
She’d watched Vesna spar a dozen times and his skill was exceptional, she’d lain in his arms and felt the strength in his chest. The count from Anvee was a soldier well-deserving of his reputation as a hero, but even so, him she could fathom. Isak had been something more: a force of nature who suited his nickname of the Stormcaller. And now the storm was gone.
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