His emotions were contrary. He felt a stranger, an outsider in this place, and was fearful of it, but also that he somehow belonged here.
As he watched the cycle of destruction and creation going on all around, he became aware of a presence. A consciousness, near to hand, seeping depravity and malevolence. The impression was of pure mind. Not singular but many; a vast coupling of intelligences that formed a miasma of spite. He couldn’t see it, it seemed to have no substance, but he knew it could snuff him out.
It approached.
A shadow fell over him, though it had no visible source. Its cold touch relayed terror.
He turned and ran.
The black, malignant force pursued him.
He took to the air, lifting as easily and lightly as a bird. It was wholly instinctive. He had no wings; belief elevated him and thought directed his flight. The talent came naturally, and of all the wonders this world had to offer it seemed the least remarkable.
Now he was among the myriad other airborne things, twisting and dodging to avoid them. The dark intelligence was at his back, ready to pounce. He dived, spun, soared, trying to shake it off. His course took him through clouds of the flying grotesques. As he passed, they were drawn into the inky embrace of the multi-mind, swelling its might and rancour.
It brought lightning bolts into existence and hurled them at him. He swerved and spiralled to escape the crackling, dazzling strokes of energy.
Then one struck him. Every particle of his being was ravaged by its intensity. He plummeted down to the ever-shifting, fickle earth, and was seized by a power greater than mere gravity.
Trapped, defenceless, he could only watch as the manifold blackness descended inexorably to engulf him. And he knew that death was the least it could inflict.
He screamed.
Instantly, the fiery sky reasserted itself. Then that was blocked from view as the wooden ceiling reformed.
He was prostrate, staring up at joists and rafters, as the pain flooded back.
Again he screamed, until the dark swallowed him.
Late afternoon saw the trio back on the road to Valdarr.
Karr took his turn as wagon driver, with Kutch at his side. Caldason travelled behind under canvas.
It had been an awkward day. Caldason was taciturn and troubled looking, only speaking when he was spoken to and not always then. There had been no time for Kutch to discuss the night’s events with him. Not that the Qalochian seemed very inclined to do so.
Kutch had watched what happened to Reeth during the night in horrified fascination. When it was finally over, in the small hours, he found that the rope gag was almost chewed through. He got him back to the shack somehow, only avoiding being seen by sheer luck, and bedded him down on the cot. For himself, Kutch took the floor, and they slept erratically for a couple of hours. Naturally they said nothing to Karr the next morning. And once the communards had been thanked and their weapons retrieved they made an early start.
Now Caldason slumped in the back of the wagon looking exhausted. Kutch, confused as ever about what ailed him, was lost in thought. Karr seemed his usual self. But Kutch was coming to realise that in his way the patrician was as hard to read as Caldason. The difference was that where Reeth retreated into sullen silence, Karr covered his true intentions with verbosity. Kutch half suspected the patrician had some idea of their nocturnal adventure, though he made no mention of it.
Following some small talk about the commune and its fortunes, Karr said, ‘I wish we’d known this horse’s shoe needed attention before we left there. Still, we’ll be at Saddlebow soon.’
Caldason made one of his rare contributions. ‘Can’t we go round it?’
‘I don’t know where else we can have a horse shod. Anyway, skirting Saddlebow adds another day to the journey. But I don’t want to linger there any longer than you do. We’ll rest, see to the horses, stretch our legs. No more.’ He turned to Kutch. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask: have you ever been to Valdarr before?’
‘No, nor even Saddlebow. I travelled a bit with my master, but always to other hamlets and villages. I suppose that makes me a country boy.’
‘Then it’s probably good that we’re starting at Saddlebow and working our way up. You could find town and city life a bit overwhelming at first.’ He gave the boy a smile. ‘But don’t worry, you have guardians.’
‘One of whom’s a wanted outlaw,’ Caldason said, ‘and the other a target for assassins.’
That put a bit of a damper on things and they rode in silence until Saddlebow came into view.
It was a sizeable town, full of activity, and when they found a blacksmith he told them he needed a couple of hours to attend to the shoe.
‘You won’t find another smith less busy,’ he promised.
‘All right,’ Karr replied, handing him some coins.
The man spat on them and dropped them into his apron pouch. ‘I’ll see to it your team’s fed and watered.’
‘We could do with that ourselves,’ Karr decided. ‘Come on,’ he told his companions.
They began to walk, looking for a tavern. The streets bustled.
‘Is it normally this full?’ Kutch asked.
Karr shook his head. ‘This is unusual.’
There were watchmen in the crowd, and a few paladins. They steered well clear of them. As they got nearer to the town’s centre there were more and more people.
‘Maybe we’ve come on a festival day or something,’ Kutch suggested.
‘They don’t seem in a particularly festive mood,’ Caldason pointed out.
He was right. With few exceptions the crowd was sombre and uncommonly quiet for such a mass.
Everybody seemed to be going the same way. Reeth, Karr and Kutch went along with them, partly out of curiosity, partly because they didn’t want to draw attention to themselves.
Eventually they came to the town’s main square. It was packed with hundreds of people. Peddlers and jugglers worked the throng, but they plied their trade with scant enthusiasm. The tunes the itinerant musicians played were mournful.
Kutch spotted food sellers, carrying their wares on large trays balanced on their heads. ‘I’m starving,’ he announced. ‘Shall we eat?’
‘Wait.’ Caldason put a hand on the apprentice’s shoulder and pointed towards the centre of the square. Kutch and the patrician craned their necks to see.
The crowd lapped up against a long wooden platform which rose above the heads of the onlookers. It could have been a stage, except for several thick projecting posts, about the height of a man.
Kutch looked puzzled. ‘What is it?’
‘An execution platform,’ Caldason explained.
The blood drained out of Kutch’s face. ‘Oh,’ he whispered.
To one side of the platform a small spectators’ stand had been erected. It was covered by an awning and held three or four rows of tiered seats. They were filling up with the expensively attired and well fed, presumably local dignitaries. Among them were individuals whose splendid clothing and showy glamoured accessories marked them out as citizens of Gath Tampoor.
A blast of trumpets silenced the murmuring crowd. Then a procession climbed to the platform, led by an official with the self-important look of an over-promoted clerk. He was followed by several other functionaries, and behind them two bedraggled men who were obviously the accused, escorted by militia. Already manacled, the prisoners were chained to two of the posts.
The retinue included a state sorcerer. Swiftly, he cast a spell that conjured an orating glamour. This took the form of a giant mouth that floated high above the dais and acted as an amplifier for the crowd.
Stepping forward, the lead official unrolled a sheet of parchment. As he read from it the hovering mouth aped his lip movements.
‘Let it be known,’
the mouth boomed,
‘that these men stand accused of disturbing the peace of the realm as legally constituted and guaranteed by His Sovereign Highness Prince Melyobar, and that through their actions they sought to endanger, subvert and betray the citizens of Bhealfa. Be it recorded, moreover, that they are further charged to be members of proscribed organisations engaged in criminal deeds to the peril of the realm.’