Kellanved's Reach

Chapter 4

It was cold, raining, and dark when Gregar and Haraj came across an army encampment at the edge of the woods. Fires burned fitfully in the thin misty rain and troops moved between a jumbled patchwork of tents. Horses nickered from somewhere across the crowded field.

Gregar looked to the skinny mage; the lad’s black hair lay flat and dripping, and as he wiped his nose, sniffling, he let the bundle of equipment he carried fall at his feet.

‘Where’s the shield?’ Gregar asked.

‘Dumped it. Too godsdamned heavy.’

Gregar swore under his breath.

‘I’m cold,’ Haraj complained, stammering. ‘Can’t sleep out in the rain again – it’s fucking winter!’

Gregar nodded. Neither of them knew how to survive outdoors. The wretched few scraps of food and water they’d looted from fallen Bloorian troops wouldn’t sustain them; they needed shelter. He couldn’t even feel his fingers or toes any more. Another night in the open might finish them – his sickly friend especially.

He kept nodding, disgusted. ‘So, we turn ourselves in just to survive.’

Haraj’s answering nod was a puppet-like jerking shiver. ‘Welcome to how things are for most nobodies.’

Gregar gestured to the belt-wrapped bundle. ‘Fine. Pick it up and let’s go.’

‘Take it? Whatever for? Don’t need it no more, do we?’

Gregar was already pushing his way through the low brush. ‘It’s a bribe now.’

‘Who are they, do you think?’ Haraj asked, following.

‘Doesn’t really matter any more, does it?’ But Gregar made a quick last check to make certain neither of them was wearing or carrying any colours or sigils – of any troop or side.

They had to stand in the open for some time before one of the spear-carrying pickets noticed them through the rain. The skinny girl jumped and raised her spear. ‘Halt!’ she squeaked out, the spear quivering. ‘Raise your arms! Who – who’re you?’

Gregar nudged Haraj, murmuring, ‘Raise your arms.’ He called out, ‘We’ve come to join!’

The girl, in ragged old leathers, her long dark hair twisted high on her head, gaped at them. ‘Sarge!’ she called over her shoulder.

Moments later a squat, fat-bellied fellow in leather armour came stomping through the rain. A sigil – a strip of cloth tied about his arm – was dark and soaked; Gregar couldn’t tell its actual colour. ‘What in the name of Hood’s bony balls is this?’ the sergeant bellowed as he came.

The picket motioned her spear to them. ‘These two want to join up.’

The soldier raised an astonished tangled brow at this. He looked them up and down, and what he saw, or believed he saw, made him sneer even more. ‘Useless deserters. Big bad world too mean for you, hey? Come crawling back hungry and wet.’

Gregar and Haraj – both dropping their arms – exchanged a look, then hung their heads.

‘Sorry,’ Gregar mumbled, and pushed forward.

The sergeant held out an arm. ‘Not so fast.’ He waved them closer. ‘Now look here – I’m supposed to report such things to the captain, but I don’t want to get you lads in hot water. What do you say, hey?’

Gregar and Haraj sent one another bemused looks. Gregar shrugged. ‘I suppose so …’

The sergeant clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Excellent. That’s the spirit. So hand over that gear and such.’ He gestured to Gregar’s mail shirt.

‘But it’s mine … been in the family …’

The sergeant looked skyward. ‘And maybe I should report this to the captain …’

Gregar let his shoulders fall. ‘Fine.’ He started undoing the leather straps.

‘Don’t fit you no how,’ the sergeant observed. He also gestured for Haraj to drop his bundled gear. ‘That too.’

‘But that’s all we got!’ Haraj complained.

‘What you get is your freedom and your lives. So drop it all. Even that,’ he added, pointing to Gregar’s belted shortsword.

Gregar ground out a breath, but let it fall.

The sergeant waved them away. ‘Now gawan with ya.’ He pointed to the girl. ‘Take them to your squad, Leah.’

‘What!’ the girl answered, outraged. ‘They’re useless.’

‘Go!’

The girl, Leah, snarled under her breath, then waved them onward. ‘This way.’

Leah’s squad, it turned out, occupied a floorless tent, a brazier banked at its centre. Haraj and Gregar crowded round the brazier, warming their hands. The rest of the squad lay asleep on the ground. Leah set her fists on her hips and eyed them, her disapproval obvious. ‘Dumbasses,’ she finally concluded, and, shaking her head, threw herself down on her own bedding.

Gregar ventured, ‘Ah … what’s the pay, anyway?’

The woman rolled her eyes. ‘Sarge would know. He’s gonna draw it.’

‘What?’ Gregar choked out, nearly spluttering.

The girl’s laugh was mocking, but sadly so. ‘Just discovered life’s not fair, hey?’

‘And just who,’ Haraj asked, ‘are we with?’

‘You’re with the Yellows’ Fourth – the Seventh Lights,’ she drawled from her tattered horse-blanket. ‘And if the Bloorian League can be said to have an anus – you’re stuck in it.’

Haraj and Gregar exchanged another look and Gregar shook his head. ‘Wonderful.’

The next morning, after a hot meal that was hardly more than mere warmed broth, they mustered in the pattering rain. He and Haraj were issued spears, which they held straight up beside them as their sergeant – Teigan – walked up and down the lines heaping abuse on them. Though still fuming, it was all Gregar could do not to burst out laughing. It was all so clichéd and stupid.

‘Are we gonna fight?’ Haraj asked, dread in his voice.

‘Naw,’ Leah answered. ‘It’s raining, innit? Them Bloorian nobles won’t fight in the rain. Gets their fancy bird-feather helmet plumes all droopy.’

Gregar snorted a laugh.

Sergeant Teigan rounded on him. ‘Oh! The ingrate new recruit thinks this is all just hilarious!’

Gregar struggled to contain a new bout of laughter. Closing nose to nose with him, Teigan yelled, ‘Maybe the new recruit would like the honour of being the colour-bearer!’

Gregar had no idea what to say to that. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘if you think—’

‘Shut up!’ Teigan bellowed. ‘That’s yes sir!’

Showing great restraint, Gregar merely clenched his lips. ‘Yes,’ he ground out, ‘sir.’

‘Hand the colours over!’ Teigan yelled.

Another of the skirmishers came running bearing a tall spear from which hung a limp yellow silk banner. Teigan thrust it at Gregar. ‘There you go.’

A touch befuddled, Gregar took it. ‘Yellow? Really?’

‘March!’ Teigan yelled, and the troop set off.

As they went, Gregar murmured to Leah, ‘I don’t understand. Isn’t this an honour? Bearing the colours and all?’

Leah just smirked. ‘The Grisians think it great sport to collect regimental colours. They think it’s noble and courageous or some such rubbish to ride down a farmer and take the flag. We go through two or three colour-bearers every battle.’

Gregar shared another look with Haraj. ‘Wonderful. Fucking wonderful.’

* * *

Having finished his immediate orders recruiting a number of potential cadre mages, Tayschrenn found himself between duties and so sought out the Napan aristocrat, Surly, who – if anyone – was actually getting things done.

He had to push past numerous bodyguards and layers of security in Smiley’s bar before gaining entry to the second floor. And by the time he did it appeared to him that the bar seemed more a nest of spies, assassins and agents provocateurs than any drinking establishment.

Upstairs, he was allowed, with some reluctance, to edge past a final layer of bodyguards and enter the presence of the woman herself.

Standing, a sheaf of vellum sheets in her hands, Surly lowered the reports to eye him, a touch impatiently. ‘Yes?’

‘Timetable,’ Tayschrenn offered, being deliberately obscure.

The faintly bluish-hued and quite muscular woman eyed him for an instant without comment. Then she allowed one curt nod. ‘Proceeding.’

‘And what of our glorious leaders?’

She shrugged. ‘Irrelevant.’

Tayschrenn gave her a sceptical look. ‘Really? The plan calls for—’ He paused here to peer about the room, crowded as it was with the woman’s bodyguards, staff, and various agents.

‘These are the people executing said plan,’ Surly explained.

Tayschrenn coughed into a fist. ‘Ah. I see. Well, the plan calls for—’

‘I know the plan,’ Surly interrupted, not bothering to disguise her impatience. ‘Your point?’

Tayschrenn decided that she was trying to goad him, so he clamped down on any reaction and eyed her impassively. ‘What if Kellanved does not show?’

‘Then a vessel will land the assault party outside the city and you will proceed from there.’

‘You? I mean, me?’

‘Yes. You will be among the party.’

He peered about the room, searching for smirks or laughter, as if at a joke at his expense. ‘Me? Whatever for? There is nothing I could possibly contribute to such a mundane, ah, errand.’

She gave him a hard stare, from one eye. ‘You are a mage … are you not?’

Now he felt rather flustered. This curt woman was frankly intimidating him. ‘Well, yes. Of course. Just not that kind of mage.’

‘What kind? The useful kind?’

Instead of slipping into anger or withering beneath such scorn, Tayschrenn stepped back from the conversation to study it from afar. Why such hostility? If this was hostility – perhaps this was the woman at her most people-friendly. He simply did not know. One thing he did know, or suspect, was that some sort of contest was being acted out here; one he had heretofore been unaware of. And there could only be a contest between rivals.

And there he had it. If she could be said to be the head of her branch of this nascent organization they were pulling together here on this wretched island, then so too was he.

They were, quite frankly, rival department heads, and their battles would be over what was always at stake: resources and prestige. And so he inclined his head in agreement. ‘You, however, will not be with us, I take it?’

She scowled at this, unhappy. ‘No. It has been decided that I remain offshore and only come in when the situation has been stabilized.’

‘I see. Very well.’ He gave a faint bow. ‘You are busy. I will leave you to it.’ He turned and walked away without waiting for her reaction.

When he reached the door she called out, ‘Tayschrenn … if you are not that kind of mage, then bring one who is.’

Facing away, he gave the slightest inclination of his head as he pulled the door open and went out.

* * *

It was night, and as was her habit Iko walked the open-sided halls and colonnaded walkways of the rambling palace at Kan. Finest silk hangings of pink and pearl-white shimmered in the lamplight, all to celebrate the passing dusting of glittering frost. The wind brushed through the surrounding orchards and gardens; night insects chirped, and bats swooped in to feed upon them. The only unnatural sound was the shush of the fine mail coat hanging to her ankles where it hissed as she paced.

She turned a corner of the open-walled colonnade and paused, half meaning to go back, as ahead came a gaggle of the local courtly Kan ‘ladies’, tittering and gossiping among themselves as they closed. She opted to remain still, and bowed as they neared. They passed, whispering to one another behind their broad fine brocaded sleeves, and laughing, eyeing her sidelong.

She sighed. From among these her ward Chulalorn the Fourth was to choose a mate? She did not know whom to feel more sorry for. These spoiled cloistered creatures, or her ward who would have to put up with them.

Still, she, captain of the select bodyguard, the Sword-Dancers, must no doubt appear as strange and exotic to them as they did to her.

She started off again on her meditative walk, hands at her belt, head cocked as she listened to the sounds of the night. Two turns later she paused once more and turned back. Far up the hall a young servant now closed, her bare feet only faintly slapping the polished marble of the hall. The servant bowed to her. ‘M’lady. You are called to council, if you would.’

‘It is not m’lady,’ Iko corrected her. ‘You are new here, yes? I am not noble born. It is captain.’

The servant bowed once more. ‘Yes captain, m’lady.’

Iko let out a hard breath. ‘Council you say? At this hour? The king?’

‘Safe, ah … captain.’

‘Very well. I shall attend.’ The servant hurried off ahead to pass the word.

For her part, Iko remained still for a time longer. She attempted to regain her sense of calm oneness with the gardens and the night, but the mood was broken. She hoped this was not word of some new border transgression from Dal Hon. The last thing Kan needed now after the losses at Heng was a war. Any war. Unfortunately, her enemies knew this also. So she adjusted the whipsword at her back and headed for the council chambers.

The guards admitted her, opening the broad double leaves of the gilded doors. Within, she saw Mosolan, the regent, as expected, but she was surprised to find a newcomer, a rather striking figure. Tall she was, her hair a bunched silvery mane that reached all the way down to the back of her knees. This woman turned, and regarded her with captivating, equally pale-silver eyes. Her mouth, however, soured the striking effect, pulled down as it was in a lined frown. Bitch face, Iko had heard this sort of resting expression named.

Mosolan extended an arm to the woman. ‘The Witch Jadeen. Iko, Captain of the Guard.’

Iko’s brows rose in astonishment – and a touch of alarm. This was the terror of the south? The mage who many said kept the Dal Hon shamans in line? From her sour mouth alone Iko could almost believe it. She nodded a greeting; the woman did not deign to respond.

‘You will speak with us,’ Mosolan told Jadeen.

The mage threw back her head, her spectacular mane of hair tossing. ‘I am come to demand action.’

‘What sort of action?’ Mosolan enquired. The old general, now regent of Itko Kan, crossed an arm over his chest and rested the other upon it to hold his chin. Iko knew enough of the man to know he was taking this meeting very seriously.

The witch was about to speak when the doors opened again and in swept a tall middle-aged man in a silken robe, sashed at the waist, his long black hair loose. ‘What is this?’ he announced. ‘A council meeting without the nobles’ chosen representative?’

‘This is a consultation only,’ Mosolan answered wearily. Yet he extended an arm in introductions: ‘Leoto Kan, of family Kan. Leoto Kan – the Witch Jadeen.’

Leoto flinched at the name, while Iko noted how the witch’s scowling mouth drew down even more in evident satisfaction at the response.

‘You were saying …’ Mosolan prompted Jadeen.

She nodded, then tilted her head back, glowering imperiously. She slammed a fist into a palm. ‘You must crush Malaz Island. Now. Destroy it.’

Iko almost missed her words in her surprise at seeing the woman’s nails were long, pointed, and entirely black.

Yet Mosolan nodded, all seriousness. ‘Malaz Island? Why?’

‘A disturbing set of powers are gathering there. I have foreseen they could threaten the mainland. Threaten Itko Kan.’

Iko cudgelled her brain to even recall that particular island to mind. All she could remember were tales of a pirate haven. She snorted. ‘Sea-raiders are no threat to the kingdom.’

‘Shut up, Sword-Dancer,’ the witch snarled. ‘There is more here than you can grasp.’

Iko let out a hissed breath, but held her silence: Mosolan was regent, not she. She also noted a smirk of satisfaction similar to the witch’s earlier pleasure quirk the noble Kan’s lips.

Mosolan had raised a hand to intervene. ‘Iko here was at Heng. She is not to be dismissed.’

The witch tossed her mane once more to show what she thought of that. ‘I do not travel here and give my warnings lightly, regent. Do not dismiss me!’

Mosolan raised a placating hand once again. ‘We would do no such thing, Jadeen. Your wisdom is appreciated.’ To Iko’s eyes the witch was in no way appeased. ‘Yet,’ Mosolan continued, ‘for such drastic action – what evidence can you provide?’

A snarl twisted the woman’s thin lips even more and she glared. ‘I am not used to having to justify my advice, regent. But if you insist …’ She crossed her arms, grasping her black-nailed hands on either arm. ‘The Dragons Deck warns of the end of the Chulalorn line.’

Iko was before the witch in an instant, her whipsword half drawn. ‘What is this!’

To her credit, Jadeen did not so much as flinch; her gaze remained fixed upon Mosolan. ‘You are warned,’ she announced, and spun upon her heels to march from the chamber.

When the door closed, Councillor Leoto coughed lightly into a fist. ‘Well, regent. I must attend your consultations more often. They are certainly not boring.’

Iko slammed home her whipsword and turned upon the aristocrat. ‘Shut up, Leoto.’

The head of family Kan offered her a cold smile. ‘A pleasure as always, Iko.’

Mosolan paced the marble floor before the empty throne of Itko Kan, now draped in royal green silk. ‘Malaz?’ he wondered aloud. ‘A gathering of powers that could worry Jadeen?’ He shook his head, almost in wonder. ‘She warned against the Third’s march north, you know. And before that she gave warning of the Dal Hon invasion to the Second.’ He turned to regard them, amazement upon his features now. ‘I never imagined I would be the one to hear a prediction from her.’

Iko cut a hand through the air. ‘She senses a rival to her influence in the south and would have us do her dirty work for her.’

‘Perhaps,’ Mosolan allowed.

‘Question,’ Leoto put in, raising a finger. ‘What sources do we have on that worthless island?’

Mosolan turned to face them, clasped his hands at his back. It looked to Iko as though the Witch Jadeen’s words had affected him far more than her; the man had already been old – practically retired – before the burden of regency had fallen to him. Now he appeared positively exhausted, his lined features marked by the cares of his office. He sighed. ‘Not a one.’

* * *

The so-called ‘fortress’ at Two-River Pass occupied a wide gravel wash between the two braided arms of the river that gave it its name. After a series of falls the Two-River lost its way in the lower northern valley of the pass, and here the fortress guarded the road to Tellick on the coast.

Orjin Samarr’s troop descended the pass in the night, their way lit by a clear and bright starry sky. In the pre-dawn light they forded one arm of the river, the frigid rushing waters rising to Orjin’s waist, and marched up the gravel strand of the mid-channel island.

Vegetable plots planted in the rocky soil surrounded the fortress’s outer timber palisade. Within, peeping above the sharpened logs, rose the top of the inner tower, built of mortared river stones. He noted multiple watches on the walls pointing their way and shouting down within. The twin leaves of the palisade gate stood open, and as Orjin and his immediate lieutenants – who considered themselves something of an unofficial bodyguard – approached they were met by a cordon of Purge regulars barring the way in a shieldwall. An officer pushed through to meet with them; a tall and lean woman in a coat of leather armour, cut as overlapping scales. Eyeing them, she announced to the gate guards, ‘More survivors from the battle. You are?’

‘Captain Orjin Samarr.’

She extended a gauntleted hand, ‘Prevost Jeral.’

Orjin knew ‘prevost’ to be an ancient rank equivalent to captain. He took her hand and she nodded, then pulled off her helmet to reveal four long braids that bounced about her shoulders. She waved him onwards. ‘You are free to join us, though we are ordered to withdraw.’

‘Withdraw?’ Orjin replied, startled. ‘This is the last fortress between the pass and Purge lands …’

‘I know.’ She drew off her gauntlets and waved them towards a file of wagons, incompletely loaded with supplies and materiel.

‘Who gave the order?’ Orjin asked.

‘Two nights ago three noblemen came charging through on their way to Purage. They ordered the garrison withdrawn to help protect the city.’

Protect them more like, Orjin almost said aloud. ‘Was Baron Terrall among them?’

‘Aye, he was.’

Orjin eyed the half-loaded wagons. Two nights ago? ‘You are still evacuating?’ he asked, rather confused.

‘Oh, aye,’ Jeral answered, clearing her throat. ‘Unfortunate shortage of mules and horses. Also, a broken axle. I’ve sent a messenger to Purge to requisition adequate cartage.’

Orjin rubbed his chin to hide a smile. ‘I see. By regulation.’

She nodded, echoing his understanding. ‘All by regulation. In the meantime,’ she continued, giving him a sidelong glance, ‘if the enemy appears – we’ll just have to fight.’

This time he did not try to hide his smile. ‘If you must. Of course.’

Orjin’s troop was filing in now, and the tall leaves of the main gate were being pushed shut behind them. The prevost extended him a look. ‘And what’s your story?’

Almost wincing at what was to come, he drew a folded sheet of vellum from a waist pouch and held it out to the Purge officer. ‘We are signed with the throne.’

Jeral examined the signed sheet, the wax seals, cocked a brow. ‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning – by regulation – I outrank you.’

Her mouth hardened and she handed the folded sheets back. ‘Now I see. And what are your orders, sir?’

‘My intention is to slow the Quon Talian advance by any means possible, prevost.’

The smile returned to Jeral’s lips, and she saluted. ‘Excellent, sir.’ Searching among the troops, she pointed to a soldier. ‘Sergeant – unload those wagons!’

The trooper answered the woman’s smile and saluted. ‘At once, prevost.’

The officer returned her attention to Orjin and shook her head, her long braids bouncing. ‘So – your first command? Take a look.’

She led him on a tour of the fortress, such as it was. He did his best to hide his growing dismay; not only was the garrison shockingly under-supplied, but much-needed repairs were years behind. Rot in some sections of the palisade made it more dangerous to the defenders than any would-be attackers. The tower itself proved to be nothing more than a hollow three-storey stone circle, its interior flooring and joists long burned away over the decades of interminable border warfare. The installation had in fact changed hands more times than a Cawnese gambling establishment, leaving neither side interested in sinking any resources into it.

After the brief tour, Orjin and Jeral ended up at the south wall of the palisade, peering up at the steep and rocky Two-River Pass. She took hold of her long braids, one on either side of her head, and rested her arms in this manner, the way a man might tuck his hands into his belt. The gesture rather charmed Orjin, who had taken a liking to the straight-talking daughter of some minor Nom baronet. She leaned back against the sharpened palisade logs and regarded him. ‘So, your first command. Well – looks like it’s gonna be your last.’

Orjin was eyeing the steep, bare mountainsides. ‘We’ll see.’

‘There’s no way you can stop them, you know.’

He nodded. ‘You’re right. There’s no way we can stop them.’

She dropped her arms. ‘So? I won’t just throw my lads and lasses away. Perhaps we should abandon the fort.’

‘Got any locals among your troops?’

‘Locals? Yeah, I suppose. A few.’

‘Have them sent to me. I want to have a word.’ He raised his chin to the mountain slopes then gave her a look. ‘That pass – it’s damned steep. Prone to slides, I imagine.’

She glanced up and set to rubbing her chin once more. After a moment her lips crooked and her brown eyes – shot through with green – narrowed and got a sly look to them. ‘Yeah,’ she agreed, ‘all the time.’

Orjin’s lieutenants, Yune, Terath, and Orhan of Fenn, joined him and Jeral at the meeting with the local recruits – ‘recruits’ being a gentle euphemism for taxation as enforced service. These dirt-poor herders and farmers were used mainly as mountain guides and light skirmishers. Once the meeting was over, Orjin sat back from the cookfire they’d met around in the enclosed grounds of the bailey and eyed Jeral; the woman was clearly still troubled as she tapped a thumb to her lips. He cocked a brow, inviting her to speak. She let out a hard breath. ‘Okay. I get it. We hit the supply train then raid it, if possible. But what I don’t get is what about the fortress? Who’ll be down here when we’re all up the slopes?’

He nodded. ‘I will, together with a few of my picked troops.’

She snorted her disbelief. ‘Really? You’n’a few others – while I’m out runnin’ the ambush, I suppose?’ He nodded again, eyeing her steadily. ‘You’re taking a big chance.’

He just shrugged. ‘I suppose that’s entirely up to you.’

She looked away, sighing and shaking her head, appalled. ‘Crazy fucking Hood-damned lunatic.’

He poked a stick at the embers of the fire. ‘Better get going. I expect they’ll be here right on our heels.’

She stood and brushed the long leather skirtings of her coat. ‘We’ll assemble supplies and head out within the hour.’ She peered down at him for a time, her expression unreadable, then she gave a curt nod. ‘Oponn be with you.’

‘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.