The Righteous Blade

9

‘It’s no good,’ Kutch pleaded. ‘I can’t do this.’

‘You can,’ the mage insisted. ‘Trust me. Concentrate on the exercise and-’

‘I

can’t

! I thought it was a good idea, but now I see you…’

‘Seeing me this way was the whole point, remember? Now forget everything else and focus on the task at hand.’

‘It’s not easy.’

‘Since when was anything to do with the potent art easy? Just try. Will you do that for me?’

‘I…I’ll try.’

‘Good. I suggest we be still for a moment and centre ourselves. Breathe as you’ve been taught.’

Kutch wriggled into a meditative position. Back straight, hands on thighs. He was stiff and fidgety.

‘Relax.’

‘Relaxing’s hard work sometimes,’ the boy grumbled.

A smile crimped the old man’s face, exposing remarkably well-preserved, even teeth. His face was wrinkled and a little weather beaten, and he had a knack of adopting an expression that was simultaneously severe and benevolent. He was Kutch’s late master, Grentor Domex, to a T.

Kutch’s eyes were closed, but his lashes trembled, betraying his tension. The mage let him be.

The room was quiet and softly lit. It was unmistakably a wizard’s den, filled with stone pots and glass jars of herbs and elixirs; ceremonial paraphernalia; ancient books. Everything was in haphazard piles and disordered heaps. There was a temporary air about it that declared its occupant was an itinerant.

When a few minutes had passed, the mage said, ‘Open your eyes.’

The boy did so.

‘Let’s get rid of these, shall we?’ The mage leaned over, took the blinkers dangling from Kutch’s wrist and dropped them on an adjacent table. ‘They’re not needed.’

Kutch nodded, but kept a wary eye on them.

‘We’ll try something different,’ the mage decided. ‘Look over there.’ He pointed to a tall wooden cabinet standing in the middle of the room’s clutter. Its doors were half wire mesh. There were sounds of movement inside, but the mesh was too dense to see what made them. The mage performed a swift hand gesture. The cabinet’s doors swung open. ‘Which is real?’ he challenged.

Three pigeons fluttered out, one black, one white, one grey. They spread their wings and took off. The room was small, and the frenzied birds seemed to fill it. They flew in circles, collided with furniture, pecked at the closed window. The noise they made was deafening.

‘Centre yourself, Kutch!’ the mage called out, oblivious to the racket. ‘Focus, focus!’

Kutch struggled to apply his spotting talent. The constant movement, the shrill cooing, the beating wings, all made his head spin. Loose sheets of parchment swirled in the chaos. An earthenware pot fell from its shelf and burst open, splattering the floor with something gelatinous and bright green.

A vial of sparkly, salmon-coloured powder dropped and shattered next to it. Neither had a particularly pleasant odour.

The mage was unconcerned. ‘You can do it!’ he urged. ‘Have confidence in your master!’

‘You’re not him,’ Kutch announced deliberately, barely making himself heard above the din. ‘He’s dead.’

The mage saw that the boy’s eyes were moist, and sighed. He snapped his fingers. Instantly, silence returned. The pigeons hung motionless in the air, frozen in mid-flight. Two of them, the white and the black, lost their definition. Feathers and flesh dissolved into masses of golden motes. The birds’ shimmering outlines remained for a second, then faded into nonexistence. Another snap of his fingers freed the real pigeon, the grey. It beat its wings and compliantly swooped back into the cabinet. The doors slammed shut behind it.

‘I’m sorry, Kutch,’ the mage began. ‘I…Just a minute.’

He lowered his head. Immediately his features were somehow less certain. They churned, altered, mutated. His flesh took on a pappy, malleable appearance, and flowed like hot candle wax. The image of Kutch’s late master departed. In an instant, a new form emerged.

Another old man occupied the chair, but quite different to the one who’d been sitting there seconds before. He too was familiar. But he was no longer Grentor Domex.

Phoenix shook his head, as though clearing it. ‘Perhaps I made the likeness too poorly,’ he surmised. ‘After all, I haven’t seen your master for some years and I had to extrapolate his-’

‘No, it wasn’t that,’ Kutch told him. ‘If anything, you were too good.’

‘I thought that appearing in the guise of your master would put you at your ease.’

‘I thought so, too. But it just brought back memories. Not good ones. Memories of his death and…’

‘I understand. Forgive me.’

‘But…it wasn’t just seeing my master again that flustered me.’

‘Oh?’

‘Why are you giving me more spotting exercises when what I need is help with these visions I’ve been having?’

‘I look at it as being like treating a lame horse.’

‘I’m not a horse. Or lame.’

‘No. But the horse you’re riding might be.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You suspect that your visions are connected in some way with training as a spotter.’

‘It’s difficult to think what else might be doing it.’

‘I agree That’s rational. So we have to walk the horse to see if that’s where the problem is.’

‘So you think it’s the spotting, too?’

‘I’m just trying to eliminate all possibilities, Kutch.’

‘Have you ever heard of other spotters having this kind of problem?’

‘No. Then again, the number of spotters is very small, and I certainly haven’t known all of them. But there’s no reason to believe that spotting’s dangerous in that sense.’

‘In that sense?’

‘Well, we haven’t got a lot to go on, you understand, but it does seem that spotters are a bit more prone to certain pitfalls.’

‘Such as?’

‘Excessive use of alcohol, drug taking, anti-social behaviour, that sort of thing.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this at the start?’

‘Partly because I didn’t know as much about it then as I do now. I’ve been doing some research, you see. Anyway, the numbers succumbing in that way aren’t significant, and I suspect those that do fall victim to the pressure from the use spotting’s put to, rather than the spotting itself.’

‘You said partly.’

‘The other reason was that I judged you to be resilient enough to resist any such snares.’

‘How could you be so sure? I mean, suppose the training’s started something? Opened a door that can’t be closed, or-’

‘Magic has dangers, you know that. But I’ve never heard of anything resembling what’s happening to you. Then again, let’s not forget that your problem seems unique in more ways than one.’

‘Because I’m sharing visions with Reeth?’

‘Yes. That’s totally outside my experience. It’s not as though we’re talking about some kind of magical illusion that temporarily dazzles its subject, is it?’

‘No. This is different. It’s like watching something real. But something Reeth sees too, and has done for a long time.’

‘Do you see everything he sees?’

‘No. Just…just one particular thing.’

‘Go on,’ Phoenix coaxed. ‘You’ve never really tried explaining it to me.’

‘That’s because I can’t. Not really. What I get is a glimpse of…somewhere else, is the best way I can describe it. Another kind of landscape, but not like anything I’ve ever seen before, or heard about.’

‘What’s it like?’

‘Bad. It’s never still. It changes, constantly. As though the land itself is a living thing, forever in flux. And there’s a terrible sense of menace. A feeling of not belonging there.’ He shuddered. ‘Definitely not.’

‘It’s all right, Kutch. What else?’

‘Something lives there. Or a whole mass of somethings, I don’t know. Vile, poisonous things that would just love to hurt me.’

‘Do you ever see any of this in dreams?’

‘No, only when I’m awake. When I was practising spotting,

at first. Then it started when I wasn’t. That’s what scared me.’ His eyes had been downcast. Now he lifted them, and they were wide with dread. ‘You know what frightens me most?’

‘Tell me.’

‘That I’ll get to see more of it.’

‘We’ll have to make sure that doesn’t happen.’

‘How?’

Phoenix didn’t answer. Instead, he asked, ‘And this…

place

is familiar to Caldason?’

‘He says it is. But he sees lots more than I do. It’s hard to say what, because he’s not keen to talk about it.’ He added, hesitantly, ‘Though he just told me about something else he’d seen. Something new. I can trust you, can’t I, Phoenix? I mean, if Reeth thought I’d been talking about it-’

‘You have my word.’

Kutch took a breath. ‘He told me that he was responsible for his mother’s death.’

‘He knew this from one of these visions?’

‘Yes. Or thought he did. I was there. He was shouting and screaming in his sleep and it woke me up. We talked about it.’

‘And he said he killed his own mother?’

‘He didn’t really explain it, just said it was his fault. But I can’t see how he could be responsible.’

‘Let’s get this straight. Caldason has visions about his past life. You don’t share those. The other sort of visions, about another place, you do share.’

‘Yes. And Reeth’s visions seem to…evolve. They’re getting more elaborate for some reason.’

‘And they’re tied in somehow with these berserk fits he has.’

‘He has visions without berserking. But rarely a fit without a vision. At least, that’s what he says. It’s all so complicated, I don’t understand it.’

‘It’s one of the things that makes him so dangerous, Kutch.’

‘I know.’

‘I mean, much more dangerous than any ordinary man. Think about it. Imagine you had an infinite amount of time to perfect whatever it was you did. Your magical studies, for instance. I myself have had the privilege of an extended life-span, and it’s been enormously beneficial to my understanding of the Craft. Caldason’s become such a good fighter because he’s had years to develop his skills, years without his body deteriorating or his stamina lessening. I estimate he’s older than me, yet he’s still as strong as a mountain buffalo on ramp. But whether his mental faculties have stayed as hardy-’

‘He’s not a bad man.’

‘I’m not saying he is. I think you’re right; he has the impulses of a decent man. But even the best of us can act in evil ways when under a powerful influence. Money, lust, pride…many things can turn a person bad.’

‘Not Reeth.’

‘Perhaps. But I can see why he has such a loathing of magic. Assuming magic’s the cause of his state. Which I’m not entirely convinced it is.’

‘You doubt it?’ Kutch was surprised.

‘In some ways. Do

you

know of any sorcery that could make somebody damn near immortal?’

‘Founder magic.’

‘Magic we have access to, I mean.’

‘You had access to it. It extended your life. You just said so.’

‘I was fortunate in having the chance to study a tiny scrap of surviving Founder lore. One of the very few. Decades I’ve pored over it. Its gift to me is my extended life, along with some immunity to disease. Wonderful things, but all there is to be taken from it, I’m sure.’

‘That proves my point, doesn’t it? If you’ve achieved that from just a little fragment, what might somebody else do with more? With Founder magic, they could do anything.’

‘There is no such somebody. I would have known about it. Covenant would have known. And the remaining morsels of Founder knowledge are very rare.’

‘Suppose someone’s already found the Clepsydra, and has the Source?’

‘Then we’d

certainly

know about it. Whoever had it, assuming they understood how to use it, would be running the world. And you’re forgetting that if they found it long enough ago to affect Caldason with it, they’d likely have wrung all its secrets out by now.’

‘Well, perhaps they’re about to. Maybe they’ve been teasing bits out for years, and making use of each new piece of knowledge as they deciphered it. And maybe Reeth was-’

‘No. The best protection the Source has is that extracting its secrets will prove an almost impossible task. Except for Covenant, which has studied practically nothing else for centuries.’

‘I hope you’re right, Phoenix. For Reeth’s sake if nothing else. He’s gambling a lot on the Clepsydra being found.’

‘Understandable. But I wish I’d never told him about it.’

‘You know he’s refusing to deliver the gold to Darrok?’

Phoenix nodded.

‘I can’t blame him. Like he said, he didn’t sign on for a war with pirates.’

‘I think he’ll come round. If he doesn’t, there are others in the movement who could carry out the mission. No one’s indispensable, Kutch, not even a man with such extraordinary talents as Caldason.’

‘I don’t know if he’ll change his mind or not. He’s very unpredictable in some ways. Everybody’s worried about Serrah, too.’

‘Another troubled soul. Magic isn’t

her

problem, that’s for sure. We could do without all this, Kutch, with the move not so far off.’

‘What can I do?’

‘About Caldason and Serrah? Very little, I’m afraid. Except continuing to give them your friendship unstintingly. Which isn’t so little after all, really.’

‘And my visions?’

‘That’s something I’m going to have to give a lot more thought to. Meanwhile, follow the exercises I’ve given you. Meditate. Breathe. And no more spotter training for you for a while, that’s certain. Oh, and there’s some reading you might find beneficial. I’ll give you a list.’

Kutch pulled a long face. ‘More studying?’

‘There’s nothing like the sustenance a good book can give you, boy, believe me.’

‘There’s nothing like a clean kill to lift the spirits, boy, take it from me,’ Ivak Bastorran enthused.

His nephew grunted and nocked an arrow.

They were on a balcony of a building at the paladin compound. Bundled against the autumn chill, Devlor Bastorran sat in a chair not unlike a throne, his bound leg supported by a footstool. Chair and stool had been elevated with wooden blocks, allowing him a clear view over the balcony’s low wall. He held a short bow, and a quiver lay across his lap. His uncle stood beside him, spine straight as a spear, hands clasped behind his back.

Several storeys below, neatly trimmed lawns spread out. They ran a considerable distance before reaching a border of mature trees. Beyond the trees stood the compound’s lofty walls. Nearest the building there was a natural, grassy amphitheatre of perhaps half an acre, with sloping sides. It was this area that the Bastorrans looked down on.

To their left, and almost out of sight, was an elongated wooden building resembling a stable. Ivak lifted a hand and signalled, and an unseen minion heeded the sign. Bolts were thrown, hinges squeaked. The sound of cracking whips could be heard.

A fawn stumbled into view. It had a whimsical way of walking, its slender, uncertain legs almost crossing with each step. Tan, with white mottling and underbelly, it had the tiny beginnings of horns. Its eyes were dark and soft.

An arrow struck the fawn’s neck. The animal went down, so light it seemed to bounce when it hit the green sward. Its legs convulsed, twitched. Were still.

‘Too easy,’ Devlor muttered, reaching for another shaft.

Three or four rabbits scurried into the amphitheatre. He got one square in the head, the force knocking it several feet.

‘Good shot!’ his uncle exclaimed.

Devlor didn’t bother with the other rabbits. Something more challenging had appeared. A snorting boar charged through; head down, tusks close to ploughing the earth, mad as hell. It took an erratic path around the grassy basin. So much so that Devlor’s first shot flew over the boar’s back and ran into the ground. The creature turned to look in his direction, clouds of huffing breath issuing from its flared nostrils.

Re-nocking quickly, Devlor fired again. His bolt pierced the squealing boar’s forehead. It collapsed and went into spasms. Seconds later the vigour had gone from its eyes and it gave up the struggle.

The animal’s death throes were of no interest to the younger Bastorran. His attention was on a stag entering the killing ground. The beast was in his prime, chest thrust out, head raised nobly. His off-white, faintly yellowish antlers made for a magnificent display. With the smell of blood in the air the stag was skittish, and he obeyed the instinct to flee. He ran in circles, tossing his head from side to side, intuiting the nearness of death.

Devlor’s arrow winged in and pierced his flank. The stag kept going, leaving a trail of blood on the grass.

‘Again, again!’ Ivak urged.

The stag headed for the slope and began climbing. But men were stationed at the lip. Yelling and waving pikes, they forced the stag back down. Stumbling, almost falling, it was in a state of panic. It turned, ready to make another assault, when Devlor’s second arrow slammed into its side. Its legs buckled and it collapsed, finished.

‘Well

done

, boy!’ Ivak gave his nephew’s shoulder a congratulatory punch. The sort men who otherwise never touched gave each other.

Devlor put on a frigid smile and drew yet another arrow from the sheath.

The prey was still coming, shooed and whipped from behind. A gazelle. A pair of speckled pigs. A slinking fox, three grass snakes, a llama. A trotting buffalo, looking to charge something. Animals that might otherwise be antagonistic, weaving around the bodies of fellow creatures and united in fear.

While Devlor was taking his pick, someone discreetly cleared their throat. Lahon Meakin stepped forward, bowing first to the uncle then, just slightly less deferentially, to the nephew.

‘Yes?’ Devlor said.

‘Begging your pardon, sir, but you asked me to remind you about your meeting with the armourers’ guild. The delegation’s just arrived.’

‘Damn it, yes. I’d forgotten. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

‘Very good. I’ll send someone to assist you, sir.’ Meakin showed them obeisance again, turned and left.

Ivak Bastorran watched him go, sour faced. ‘I’ll never understand why you couldn’t have chosen someone of the blood for an aide.’

‘I tried several. Clansmen are better at fighting than administration, perhaps. None of them was up to muster.’

‘I’m sure I could find you a suitable-’

‘Thank you, uncle, no. I’m satisfied with Meakin. Best adjutant I’ve ever had. So far I’ve not regretted taking him from the army.’

‘The army? He’s a Bhealfan?’

‘Yes. And why not? Should I question his origins when we have no state to boast of at all?’

‘He isn’t a paladin born. We don’t usually allow outsiders such familiarity, you know that.’

‘There’s a limit to the licence I grant him. Be assured I know what I’m doing, uncle.’

Ivak smiled. ‘It’s good to see your old spirit returning. You’re healing well, getting stronger. And I’m delighted, of course I am, but…’

‘But?’

‘I’m worried that you might do something foolish to even yourself with Caldason.’

‘

Even

myself? I should better him, at least. Annihilate him, for preference. After the hurt and humiliation he subjected me to, not to mention the affront to the honour of the clans-’

‘I know, I know. And I share your hunger for revenge. When he came out best from his engagement with you-’

‘I think you’ll find, uncle,’ Devlor replied frostily, ‘that it was the wagon crashing that prevented me from finishing him. Besides, he caught me on the raw.’

‘Of course, and he’ll pay for it. Dearly. But you’re aware that certain rules apply to our dealings with the man.’

‘Not that you’ve ever explained them to me, or why we should adhere to them.’

‘All you need to know at this stage is that they’re rules we can’t change, and that breaking them could be very detri

mental to clan influence. I wouldn’t like to think you’d imperil our standing with higher authority because of an obsession with the Qalochian.’

‘You can put your mind to rest on that.’ He spied the buffalo and pulled taut his bow. The arrow he discharged took the beast in an eye, felling it instantly.

‘I have your word?’

‘Don’t worry about it. I promise