“Could you not help us against this evil, Riamfada?”
“I am helping you, child. In the only way I can.”
Mulgrave the Swordsman trudged through the snow, a hood covering his prematurely white hair, a thick sheepskin jerkin and flowing cloak keeping the cold from his slender frame. He wandered through the market square. Most of the stalls were empty, but crowds were gathering around the few traders with food to sell. A brace of rabbits fetched a chailling, four times the usual price. The woman who bought them thrust them deep into a canvas sack and scurried away, her eyes fearful. Well she might be. Tempers were short now. Mulgrave wondered if all wars caused such a loss of simple humanity. Almost everyone seemed quicker to anger these days, and fights were commonplace among the citizens.
Armed guards were outside the bakery on the corner of Marrall Street, and a long line of hungry people waited for the doors to open. There would not be enough loaves for all. It began to snow once more. The wind picked up, cold and searching. Mulgrave’s gray cloak swirled up, and he gathered it, drawing it close around his chest. The raw chill caused his left shoulder to ache around the healing wound.
Despite the crowds in the square, the small town was ominously quiet, footfalls dulled in the thick snow, whispered conversations swept away by the wind. Fear was everywhere. Not just from the threat of starvation, Mulgrave knew. The war was coming closer, and with it the terror. Only a few years earlier the folk of Shelding would have argued in the taverns and meeting halls, debating the rights and wrongs of the covenant. Some would have spoken up for the king’s absolute right to rule. Others would have sided with the covenanters, pointing out that every Varlish citizen should have equal rights under the law. Sometimes the debates would become heated, but mostly they were good-natured. At the close the townsfolk would go back to their homes content.
After four years of war there were no more amiable debates.
Everyone knew of the fate of towns such as Barstead on the south coast. After one battle covenant troops had entered the town, rooting out royalist supporters. Sixty men had been hanged. Three days later, the covenant army in retreat, the royalists had marched through Barstead. Three hundred ten men with covenant sympathies had been hanged. Then had come the Redeemers. Mulgrave shivered.
The town had been torched. No one knew what had happened to all the women and children who had survived the murder of their men. But Mulgrave had heard from a scout who had passed through the charred remains of Barstead. Blackened bodies were everywhere.
Pushing such thoughts from his mind, Mulgrave continued on his way, cutting through alleyways and down narrow streets. A half-starved dog growled at him as he passed. Mulgrave ignored the beast, and the dog went back to chewing on the frozen carcass of a dead rat.
Crossing the curved bridge, Mulgrave paused to stare down at the frozen stream. Some way along the bank several men had cut holes in the ice and were sitting, wrapped in blankets, their fishing lines bobbing.
Mulgrave walked on. The road was icy and treacherous, and he slithered as he reached the downward slope leading to the small church. It was an old building with a crooked spire. For years there had been talk of repairing the spire, but Mulgrave liked it as it was. He paused in the cold to stare up at it. Some of the timbers had given way on the north side, causing it to lean precariously. It looked for all the world like a wizard’s hat. Many of the townspeople predicted it would fall soon, but Mulgrave doubted it, though he did not know why. Gazing at the crooked spire lifted his spirits. It seemed to mock the straight, unbending Varlish values it had been built to commemorate.
A little way behind the church was Ermal Standfast’s thatched cottage. Smoke was drifting up from the tall chimney. Mulgrave strolled to the front door and stepped inside, pushing the door shut against the swirling snow. The once portly priest was sitting by his fire, a black and white checkered blanket around his thin shoulders and a heavy red woolen cap on his bald head. He glanced up and grinned as Mulgrave removed his cloak and stamped his booted feet on the rush mat just inside the front door. “It will get warmer soon,” said Ermal. “Spring is coming.”
“It’s taking its time,” replied Mulgrave, slipping out of his sheepskin jerkin. The swordsman pulled up a chair and sat, extending his hands toward the fire.
“How is your shoulder?”
“Almost healed,” said Mulgrave. “Though it aches in this weather.”
“It will. How old are you?” he asked suddenly.
Mulgrave had to think about the question. “Thirty-four . . . almost thirty-five,” he said.
“When you are past forty it will ache all the time.”
“What an inspiring thought.”
Ermal Standfast chuckled. “Two inches lower and that ball would have meant you never had to ache again. An inch to the left and you might have lost your arm. Give thanks for the ache, Mulgrave. Experiencing it means you are alive. Are you ready to rejoin your regiment?”
“No, though I will, for a while. I intend to ask Gaise for permission to quit the army.”
Ermal seemed surprised. “My information is that you are a talented soldier. Why would a man turn his back on his talents?”
“My talents put men in the ground.”
“Ah, yes. There is that. The Gray Ghost will be sad to lose you. When he brought you to me, he said you were his dearest friend. He sat by your bedside for fully two days.”
Mulgrave felt a stab of guilt. “Gaise knows how I feel. I have seen too much death. Have you ever walked across a field in the aftermath of a battle?”
“Happily, no.”
“Luden Macks once said that the saddest sight in all the world is a battle lost. The second saddest sight is a battle won.”
“The man is your enemy, yet you quote him.”
Mulgrave shook his head. “I have no enemies. I just want to go . . .” He hesitated.
“Home?” prompted Ermal.
Mulgrave shook his head. “I have no home. The place where I was born is deserted now.”
“What about your family?”
Mulgrave said nothing for a moment but stared into the fire. “I come from Shelsans,” he said.
Ermal shuddered inwardly. He made the sign of the tree. “How did you survive?” he asked. “You can have been no more than nine . . . maybe ten.”
“I was in the hills when the knights came, visiting an old man who made honey mead wine. We saw the massacre. The old man took me to a cave high in the mountains.” Taking up a blackened poker, Mulgrave absently stirred the coals of the fire. “The closest I have to a thought of home lies far to the north: the Druagh mountains. It is good there. The air is clean. I like the people. There is something about the highlanders I warm to.”
Ermal rose. “I have a little tisane left and some honey. Warm yourself while I prepare it.”
Mulgrave leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. His left shoulder was throbbing, and he could feel a prickling in the tips of his fingers. Luck had been with him on that dreadful day as the grapeshot had screamed through the air. A rider on his left—Toby Vainer—had been ripped apart, his face disappearing in a bloody spray. A second volley had torn through the men on his right. Yet only a single ball had punched into Mulgrave, and not one had come close to Gaise Macon. The young general had ridden on, his gray horse leaping over the first cannon. The cannoneers had scattered and run as the cavalry broke through. Gaise and his riders had pursued them. Mulgrave had tried to follow, but his horse had collapsed and died beneath him, hurling him from the saddle. Only then did Mulgrave see that the beast’s body had shielded him from the worst of the grapeshot.
The wound in Mulgrave’s shoulder, so small and seemingly insignificant, had festered badly. He had slipped into a semicoma two days later.
He had returned to full consciousness in this cottage. According to Ermal Standfast, Mulgrave had been taken to the field surgeon, and the man had shrugged and said: “He will be dead within a week. The wound has gone bad.” G
aise Macon would have none of it. Having been told of a healer in Shelding, some thirty miles from the battlefield, he had commandeered a wagon.
Mulgrave had little recollection of the journey to Shelding. He remembered burning pain and occasional glimpses of clouds scurrying across a blue sky. Odd snippets of conversation: “I think he is dying, my lord.” And Gaise Macon saying: “He will not die. I will not allow it.”
He remembered the jolting of the wheels on the rutted road. But most of the journey was lost to him.
Ermal returned with two pottery jugs. Passing one to Mulgrave, he resumed his seat. “So what will you do, my friend?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you lost faith in the cause?”
Mulgrave shrugged. “What cause?” He rubbed at his eyes. He had not slept well for weeks. Nightmares haunted him, and he would awaken several times a night, sometimes crying out in anger and despair.
“Kings are chosen by the Source, so it is said,” put in Ermal. “Therefore, those who fight for the king could be considered godly. Is that not cause enough?”
“Anyone who believes that has not seen the work of the king’s Redeemers.”
“There are always rumors of excesses in war,” said the priest.
Mulgrave looked at him, seeing the fear in the man’s eyes. “Aye, you are right,” he said. “Let us talk of other things.” Mulgrave noted his friend’s relief. Ermal relaxed back into his chair and sipped his tisane. A coal on the fire split and crackled briefly. Several cinders dropped into the grate.
“Are you still having dreams of the white-haired woman?” asked Ermal.
“Yes.”
“Does she speak to you yet?”
“No. She tries, but I hear nothing. I think she is in danger.”
“What makes you think that?” asked Ermal.
“In the last few dreams she has been on a mountainside, struggling to climb. She stops and looks back. There are . . . men . . . below her. Following, I think. Then she looks directly at me and speaks. But I hear nothing.”
Ermal added a thick log to the fire. “Why did you hesitate?” he asked.
Mulgrave was nonplussed. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Before you said ‘men.’ Are they men?”
“What else could they be?” answered Mulgrave, suddenly uncomfortable.
Ermal opened his hands. “It is a dream, Mulgrave. They could be anything. They could be fish on horseback.”
Mulgrave chuckled. “I see. You think, then, that this is some trick of the mind? That she is not real?”
“I cannot say for certain. I once knew a man—Aran Powdermill. Strange little chap. Had two gold teeth in the front of his mouth. The man was crooked, a thief and a cheat who would do anything for money. Yet he could see events happening great distances away. He was also adept at finding lost items. He once located a child who had fallen down a forgotten well. He demanded two chaillings to find her. I also knew a woman who could commune with the dead. Truly remarkable talents they both possessed. Equally, I once dreamed I was trapped inside a blackberry pie with a white bear. Absolutely nothing mystical there. I had eaten too much and fallen asleep on a bearskin rug. Some dreams are visions; some are merely the mind’s fancies. You do not recall having met this woman?”
“No.”
“Do you recognize the mountains?”
“Aye, I do. The Druagh mountains in the north.”
“Perhaps you should travel there.”
“I have been thinking of it.”
“It might be best to wait until the spring. The war has displaced many citizens, and there are now said to be bands of thieves and cutthroats roaming the countryside.”
“It will be little better in the spring, my friend. This war is a long way from being won or lost.”
“I shall miss your company. So few of my parishioners play an adequate game of Shahmak.”
Mulgrave laughed. “I have only beaten you once, Master Standfast.”
“Ah, but you have also drawn three games. It wounds my ego not to win.”
A comfortable silence grew as Mulgrave watched the flames dance among the coals. Then he sighed and returned his gaze to the priest. “They are not men,” he said. “Their faces are gray and scaled, and their eyes are floating in blood.”
Ermal sat very quietly for a moment. “Do they have circlets of iron on their brows?”
“Aye, they do,” answered Mulgrave, surprised.
“Wait for a moment,” said Ermal, rising from his chair and walking through to his small study. He returned moments later with a slim silver chain. Hanging upon it was a small medallion, also silver, encased in a slender golden band. The medallion had been stamped on one side with the image of a tree. The reverse was embossed with a three-sided Keltoi rune. “These were carried by the original tree cultists back in the time of Stone. Each coin was blessed by the Veiled Lady, so it was said, and after her by Persis Albitane himself.” He placed the chain over Mulgrave’s head, tucking the medallion inside his shirt. “Wear it always, my boy.”
“Thank you. Do I take it you no longer believe that the dreams are a trick of the mind?”
Ermal spread his hands. “I am not certain. The creatures you described are written of in the oldest scrolls. They were called the Dezhem Bek. Have you heard the name?”
“No.”
“It may be that you heard of them when you were a child in Shelsans and the memory is what causes the dreams. I hope so.”
“What are they?” asked Mulgrave.
“I would imagine that depends on your perspective. To those who follow the Source of all Harmony the Dezhem Bek were men who had embraced the shadow, given themselves over to evil in return for great powers. Some scrolls call them necromancers; others describe them as eaters of souls. In the old tongue Dezhem Bek means simply the ravenous ravens. Yet there are other books, written by those whose philosophies—shall we say—were at odds with the Source. In these the Dezhem Bek are described as achieving perfection of form and strength beyond that of ordinary men. They were also said to be extremely long-lived.”
Mulgrave laughed. “Perfection of form? I think not. Unless scaled flesh has become fashionable in the cities.”
“What you see in your dreams is their spirit form. You have heard of the Orb of Kranos?”
“Of course,” answered Mulgrave. “A mythic vase—or some such—from ancient times.”
“No, not a vase,” said Ermal. “Some say it was a globe of crystal through which men could see their futures. Others claim it was the magical pommel stone of a great sword. There is even a legend that it is the severed head of a necromancer. The Dezhem Bek were said to be guardians of the orb. It made them nearly immortal.”
“I am not a great believer in magic,” said Mulgrave. “I do not mock men who have faith. It gives them comfort and often times leads them to help others. Yet I have also seen great evils committed in the name of the Source. And never have I witnessed a miracle. Until I do I shall remain skeptical.”
“I cannot argue with that,” said Ermal Standfast. “Nor will I try. What I will say is that I have heard rumors that the orb was hidden in Shelsans. The knights of the Sacrifice found it.”
Mulgrave sighed. “My father used to talk of a great secret that was guarded in Shelsans. But then, he used to tell many wonderful stories, fabulously embellished. He said that it was vital that we all learn to love. He said that love made friends of enemies and enriched the world. I wonder if he still believed that when the knights came and massacred those he loved.”
“Let us hope that he did,” said Ermal softly.
Ermal Standfast had been a priest for twenty-two years. He was loved within his community, for his sermons were gentle and often witty and he was not judgmental with his flock. Also, his fame as a healer was widespread, and many of his parishioners owed their life to what they perceived as his talent for herbal cures. It was this fame that had led Gaise Macon to bring the dying Mulgrave to h
im.
All in all the little priest should have been content, even proud of what he had achieved in Shelding during the last twenty-two years.
But even if Ermal had been given to prideful thoughts, he would no longer be able to sustain them. He felt this strongly as he sat in his small living room, staring into the fading fire. Mulgrave was asleep upstairs, and the house, except for a few creaks from the aging timbers, was silent.
“You are worse than a fraud,” Ermal told himself aloud. “You are a liar and a coward. You are a weak and loathsome man.” He felt close to tears as he sat in his deep armchair, a blanket around his thin shoulders.
Over the years he had gathered some knowledge of herbs, but all his concoctions were actually based on chamomile and cider vinegar, with an occasional dash of mustard. There was no lasting medicinal benefit to be obtained from any of them. Ermal’s talent came from within. When he laid hands upon the sick, he could heal them. He would close his eyes and know what ailed them, and he could either draw it out or boost patients’ own defense mechanisms, causing them to heal themselves. At first he had kept this gift entirely secret. This was not originally out of fear but more from a natural shyness and a desire to remain unnoticed. He did not want people to stare at him and consider him different. He did not wish to be unusual or special. As a youngster Ermal had desired comfortable anonymity. As he had grown older and more inclined toward the spiritual, he had felt that his gift should be put to use helping people. It took him a little time to come up with the idea of herbalism as a disguise for his talents. It seemed such a small lie and one for which he believed the Source would forgive him. After all, was it not the Source who had made him shy and humble? On top of that there was the memory of his father, an equally shy man. “Do good in secret, Ermal,” he had said. His donations to charity were always made anonymously or through a trusted intermediary who would not divulge the source of the good fortune. “All that we have comes from the Source,” his father had claimed, “and it is arrogance itself to claim credit for our ability to finance good deeds.”