Malice

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

VENTOS

The air was thick and heavy in the roundhouse, smoke from the firepit swirling sluggishly around the smoke-hole above. Grey light edged the doorway, signalling dawn’s imminent arrival. Ventos pushed himself up, slowly, not wanting to wake anyone.

An orange glow still seeped from the firepit, enough to guide his feet and reveal the forms of others — members of Torin’s hold or other travellers — huddled in sleep. He reached for his boots and picked his way carefully to the exit, slipping through the doors.

Quickly he made his way through the village until he came to his wain. Talar emerged from beneath it, stretched his long limbs and nuzzled against his master’s leg. Absently Ventos stroked the hound’s head as he lifted the lid of the driver’s bench seat. He pulled out a small chest, withdrew a tiny roll of parchment, a quill and a sealed horn of ink. Carefully he broke the seal, dipped the quill and began to write.

When done, he tapped the parchment into a small case, then looked to the brightening sky, clicking his tongue. Soon his hawk swept down and regarded him with bright, intelligent eyes. Deftly Ventos tied the case to the bird’s leg.

‘Fly true,’ he muttered, watching as the hawk launched herself upwards, wings a soft whisper in the air before she disappeared into the mist.