without proper rest.” Hapal bowed respectfully,
ushered the other men from the tent, and then followed.
Callistan laid back and
stared at the canvas roof above him. He could not remember a single one of
these men. Surely he should have known the faces of those under his command? Domestic of the Dalukar . It sounded
important enough.
Who had he been a matter
of hours before? It occurred to him how odd it was that he had not been rescued
from the battlefield. If he was an officer and men of his unit had survived,
why had they not protected his body? He had been left to rot in the westering
sun, mutilated by looters and pecked at by carrion. Had he been such a terrible
leader that his men had abandoned him, glad to see him fall amongst foes?
Callistan frowned. His whole body ached and screamed at him for sleep yet he
could not bring himself to close his eyes just yet. A dark feeling of unease
had coiled like a snake in his belly and sat there dripping venom into his gut.
Something was terribly wrong.
A horse whinnied outside
and there was a commotion of voices. Someone shouted angrily and there was a
gasp, then silence. Heavy footsteps slapped in the mud and suddenly the cloth
entrance to the tent was thrown open. A tall, lightly muscled man with a lean,
angular face stooped in the doorway. His hair was dirty blonde and shoulder
length and his eyes were a piercing green — bright and intimidating. As
he stepped inside and stood to his full height, Callistan could see that he was
dressed in a fine tunic of deep blue, trimmed in red. A nobleman, then.
“As I said, a spy among
us! An agent of the enemy!” His voice was oddly familiar, deep and lightly
gravelled. Hapal pushed through the opening behind him, followed by several
heavily armed men with grim faces and hungry expressions. The noble pointed at
Callistan. “Seize him at once.”
Confused, Callistan
tried to stand and fell against the bed. Rough hands gripped him under the arms
and hauled him to his feet where he was greeted by a punch in the belly that
bent him double, and then a knee in the face that brought him back upright. He
spat blood on to the floor and looked up at the noble with rage in his eyes.
“My, my Lord! I don’t
understand!” Hapal protested, wringing his hands, his eyes flitting between
captive and captor. “How can he be a spy? The war is won. Who is left to spy? I
don’t understand.”
“Look at him, man. Is it
not obvious? This is the enemy we have been warned of! The unseen enemy. This is the true danger to the Empire.” He looked at
one of the men holding Callistan. “Take him to the command tent and bind him in
irons. We will take this… thing back
to Temple and show him to the Council. Then they will know what shadows we
loyal men have to face.” He flicked his hand and the men dragged Callistan out
into the cool night.
As he passed Hapal, the
older man reached out as if to stop him, but must have thought better of it for
he lowered his hand. “My Lord Callistan,” he called and Callistan shifted
awkwardly in the grip of his captors to answer him, only to see that it was not
him who was being addressed, but rather the tall noble. And then he realised
why the noble's voice had been so familiar.
It was the same voice as
his own.
III
In the town of Elk, in
the shadow of the mountain people called the Widowpeak, a young man ambled. He
was of a slim build, with narrow, feminine shoulders and long limbs that seemed
to have altogether too many joints. He was neither tall, nor short, but rather
of a middling height that drew little attention. His face was still soft and
rounded with youthful puppy fat, but framed with high, fragile-looking
cheekbones and full pink lips, frozen perpetually into the threat of a frown.
He had eyes of deepest brown laced with veins of orange gold, and could be
considered handsome in a vulnerable sort of way, though his features were
marred by a small pockmark under one eye. His hair
ushered the other men from the tent, and then followed.
Callistan laid back and
stared at the canvas roof above him. He could not remember a single one of
these men. Surely he should have known the faces of those under his command? Domestic of the Dalukar . It sounded
important enough.
Who had he been a matter
of hours before? It occurred to him how odd it was that he had not been rescued
from the battlefield. If he was an officer and men of his unit had survived,
why had they not protected his body? He had been left to rot in the westering
sun, mutilated by looters and pecked at by carrion. Had he been such a terrible
leader that his men had abandoned him, glad to see him fall amongst foes?
Callistan frowned. His whole body ached and screamed at him for sleep yet he
could not bring himself to close his eyes just yet. A dark feeling of unease
had coiled like a snake in his belly and sat there dripping venom into his gut.
Something was terribly wrong.
A horse whinnied outside
and there was a commotion of voices. Someone shouted angrily and there was a
gasp, then silence. Heavy footsteps slapped in the mud and suddenly the cloth
entrance to the tent was thrown open. A tall, lightly muscled man with a lean,
angular face stooped in the doorway. His hair was dirty blonde and shoulder
length and his eyes were a piercing green — bright and intimidating. As
he stepped inside and stood to his full height, Callistan could see that he was
dressed in a fine tunic of deep blue, trimmed in red. A nobleman, then.
“As I said, a spy among
us! An agent of the enemy!” His voice was oddly familiar, deep and lightly
gravelled. Hapal pushed through the opening behind him, followed by several
heavily armed men with grim faces and hungry expressions. The noble pointed at
Callistan. “Seize him at once.”
Confused, Callistan
tried to stand and fell against the bed. Rough hands gripped him under the arms
and hauled him to his feet where he was greeted by a punch in the belly that
bent him double, and then a knee in the face that brought him back upright. He
spat blood on to the floor and looked up at the noble with rage in his eyes.
“My, my Lord! I don’t
understand!” Hapal protested, wringing his hands, his eyes flitting between
captive and captor. “How can he be a spy? The war is won. Who is left to spy? I
don’t understand.”
“Look at him, man. Is it
not obvious? This is the enemy we have been warned of! The unseen enemy. This is the true danger to the Empire.” He looked at
one of the men holding Callistan. “Take him to the command tent and bind him in
irons. We will take this… thing back
to Temple and show him to the Council. Then they will know what shadows we
loyal men have to face.” He flicked his hand and the men dragged Callistan out
into the cool night.
As he passed Hapal, the
older man reached out as if to stop him, but must have thought better of it for
he lowered his hand. “My Lord Callistan,” he called and Callistan shifted
awkwardly in the grip of his captors to answer him, only to see that it was not
him who was being addressed, but rather the tall noble. And then he realised
why the noble's voice had been so familiar.
It was the same voice as
his own.
III
In the town of Elk, in
the shadow of the mountain people called the Widowpeak, a young man ambled. He
was of a slim build, with narrow, feminine shoulders and long limbs that seemed
to have altogether too many joints. He was neither tall, nor short, but rather
of a middling height that drew little attention. His face was still soft and
rounded with youthful puppy fat, but framed with high, fragile-looking
cheekbones and full pink lips, frozen perpetually into the threat of a frown.
He had eyes of deepest brown laced with veins of orange gold, and could be
considered handsome in a vulnerable sort of way, though his features were
marred by a small pockmark under one eye. His hair
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