‘And with you.’ He waved her off.
As he’d anticipated, Terath immediately cleared her throat loudly and drawled, ‘And who’s gonna be with you on this suicidal heroic last stand?’
He cast an amused look her way. ‘Why you, of course.’
She snorted her disbelief, poked a finger after Jeral. ‘Like the woman said – you’re taking a big chance. What if she decides to withdraw after all?’
Orjin shook his head. ‘She won’t.’
‘Oh? You think so? You know people so well, do you?’
He continued shaking his head while prodding the embers. ‘No. I know soldiers. And there’s no way that one would do anything that would shame her in front of her troops.’
Terath looked to the Dal Hon shaman in his robe of faded tatterdemalion rags. ‘What about you, Yune? You for this?’
The wrinkled elder shrugged. ‘It is for the captain to decide.’
Terath looked to the sky in her exasperation. ‘Why even ask a fatalist for his opinion?’ She sighed. ‘Well, it’ll be a great fight … while it lasts.’
The giant Orhan clapped her on the back and guffawed. ‘That’s the spirit!’
She mouthed curses under her breath and glared.
* * *
A lone traveller walked the sandy strand of the cliff-faced shore of south Quon Tali. He’d recently come from Horan, near to the Dal Hon border and the Forest of Horn, having been staying for many months with the priests and priestesses of the large temple to Poliel in that city.
The squat but powerfully built man travelled in a plain loincloth only, his arms, chest, and legs bare and sun-scorched, yet declaring to all his role and his calling, for tattooed upon his flesh, rising from his ankles to his shoulders and onward to his face and wrists, rode emblazoned the likeness of a rampaging boar: Fener – the god of war himself.
Though alone and unarmed he walked without fear. None in their right mind would dare accost any man or woman so inscribed, for everyone knew such an all-embracing display could only be granted by the dispensation of that very god. Likewise, the man carried no pack or other supplies; Fener would dispense all – or not.
And so the man did not flinch or cower when four robe-wrapped figures rose from the wave-splashed boulders of the rocky coast. He merely halted, crossed his arms, and waited calmly for Fener to reveal his purpose.
All four threw back their hoods, revealing two men and two women, all bearing similar boar-visage tattoos upon their faces, though, tellingly, not their arms or legs.
‘Heboric of Carasin,’ one of the men announced, ‘we are sent from your family.’
A lopsided smile crooked the priest’s heavy lips. He knew that by ‘family’ the priests and priestesses before him meant his adopted family of the faithful of Fener, not his long lost and forgotten family of birth. ‘And what word from our family?’ he asked.
‘We are concerned,’ said one of the women.
‘Concerned? Concerned for what?’
‘For your soul,’ the other woman put in bluntly.
‘And what reason have you for such concern?’
The bearded eldest of the four gestured back up the strand. ‘Your consorting with other cults! And this is not the only time, either. We know you have sought out those loyal to the damned meddling Queen of Dreams and taken consultation with them! Not to mention seeking out hermits and ascetics who affect to speak for eldritch powers, such as K’rul.’
Heboric’s thick lips crooked even deeper. ‘Heavy are my crimes indeed.’
The priest’s finger now jabbed at him. ‘Do not mock your duties to Father Boar!’
‘Enough!’ the first woman interjected – she was the youngest of the group, and was blue-hued as a native of the Napan Isles. ‘Enough, brother Eliac.’ She faced Heboric. ‘What of these charges?’
He shrugged his meaty shoulders. ‘I have heard no charges – only an itinerary of my travels.’
Eliac spluttered his outrage; the young woman sighed and crossed her arms within their long loose sleeves. ‘Very well … the family is concerned that you are neglecting your sworn obligations to your god.’
Heboric inclined his head in acknowledgement of this well-mannered enquiry. He crossed his thick arms, the boar forelimb tattoos writhing and twisting as he did so. ‘I consider myself to be pursuing those very obligations with these researches.’
Brother Eliac snorted his scorn and drew breath to speak, but the young priestess raised a hand, silencing him. Heboric was impressed – for one so young to have acquired such authority spoke of great talent. She cocked her head. ‘How so?’
Heboric nodded again, pleased that the priesthood was now finally asking questions. ‘Have you not noted the disturbances among the Warrens and the gods? The strange manifestations? Ripples of power from no accountable source? A peculiar restiveness among the pantheon?’
The priestess shook her head, disappointed. ‘Heboric – none know of what you speak. Come back to the temple. A great honour could be yours among the family. Please.’
He gestured to his body. ‘I carry Fener with me no matter where I go. He may withdraw his presence whenever he wishes.’
The priestess appeared pained. ‘Do not tempt the Boar, Heboric. Withdrawal would kill you.’
‘I tempt nothing. Fener is with me. He guides my path – of this I am certain. And so the priesthood should not interfere.’
The young Napan priestess now shook her head in sadness. ‘You are determined to pursue this path …’
‘I am.’
She let out a long hard breath. ‘Very well. Who are we to intercede? May the Great Boar watch over you.’
Brother Eliac pointed down the strand. ‘This path leads only to death, fool. None return from the Isle of the Cursed.’
Heboric offered up a sideways mocking smile. ‘Know you not, brother, that those living there have another name for their home? They name it Poliel’s Isle of the Blessed.’
Eliac shuddered within his robes. ‘They are exiled. They bear the taint of the rotting flesh. Travel there and you too shall be exiled – for life.’
Heboric gave a wink. ‘I, brother Eliac, trust in Fener.’ And, bowing, he carried on his way. None shouted after him, and none pursued. Nor would they again, he knew. For though a place high within the priesthood of the Boar might have been his, it was this mission that possessed him. Let the others climb the dreary career rungs of the priestly hierarchy – he had been called. He felt it. And he would pursue it no matter what fate may await.
Chapter 5
In early winter word came to Silk requesting his least favourite duty. The bureaucrats who actually ran the day to day activities of the city, the record-keepers who granted deeds, oversaw the maintenance of roads, sewage tunnels and gutters – all the mundane administrative requirements that any large population requires – had forwarded to him a request to look into disturbances in the western caravanserai district.
Disturbances and complaints that involved an alleged local talent.
It happened once or twice a year. Either a new local talent had emerged, or someone new had come to the city who didn’t know, or was defying, the rules the Protectress had set forth. In either case, one of the five city mages had to look into it and it was his turn.
And so one chilly morning he wrapped a thick cloak about himself and set forth. Of course he was also armed, as occasionally – despite his best efforts to keep things civil – these confrontations turned violent.
Those city bureaucrats had obviously dithered over this problem until the complaints became overwhelming, because no sooner had Silk entered the district than local shopkeepers and residents came clamouring. They pointed out the business – one of the many stablers serving the caravans – and recounted stories of lost sheep and goats, missing dogs, even, some whispered, missing children, all taken by this shapeshifting winged demon child who resided, apparently, above the stables.