The Ragged Man by Tom Lloyd

face.

    ‘He’s not of the tribes,’ she announced with alarm. These parts were remote and the Harlequin clans did not welcome travellers eager to discover their secrets. She turned the head to one side. ‘These are feather tattoos; he was a priest of Vellern?’

    ‘ What?’ screamed a voice in Venn’s mind. ‘ What is happening?’

    ‘He must have travelled a long way to reach us, but he died at the very entrance to the cavern,’ Venn said softly. ‘ Hush your mouth, Jackdaw, let me think.’

    ‘Is he Farlan?’

    Venn peered at the dead body. There was no mistaking the face; it was the former Prior Corci, the monk dubbed Jackdaw by his new master, Azaer. The puckered scars where Azaer had ripped a handful of tattooed feathers from his cheek were clearly visible. Venn restrained the urge to laugh long and loudly.

    ‘It appears so,’ he ventured, thinking madly. ‘Please, help me up.’

    He allowed the apprentices to slip their hands under his arms and bear him upright, tottering a little for good measure before adopting the same hunched posture imposed on him for months. Acting was part of a Harlequin’s training, and Venn shuffled over to the corpse as like the man who had ventured outside a few minutes earlier as possible. The strain might have been lifted from his face, but he’d quickly realised a more gradual return to his former strength would be safer. Jackdaw’s magic had not dampened their ability to question.

    ‘What was he doing here?’ one of the apprentices asked in a whisper.

    ‘ What’s happening? What has happened to me? ’ Jackdaw wailed in Venn’s mind.

    ‘Seeking me,’ Venn said finally. ‘The Land has sickened and men seek a cure to its ills. This man has followed his faith and given his life to call us forth.’

    ‘Should we leave sooner than the Equinox Festival?’ Paen asked.

    Venn bowed his head. ‘We will leave within the week. My time of testing is over; I will soon be strong enough to travel again.’

    ‘ Venn, I’m lying dead on the ground ! ’ Jackdaw shrieked hysterically, unheard by the others.

    ‘So you are , ’ Venn said softly once the others were out of earshot, trying to hide the quick grin that stole over his face. ‘O ur master has quite a sense of humour.’

    ‘Humour ? ’ Jackdaw screamed, ‘ my body is dead ! Merciful Gods, I’m trapped inside your shadow, and I cannot feel anything! I’m a ghost, a living ghost!’

    ‘Living? Oh, I don’t think so, my friend, ’ Venn replied.

    ‘ Far from it, ’ purred a third voice inside him.

    Venn froze, an icy twitch of fear running down his spine.

    ‘ Morghien will so relish having competition for his title.’

    ‘Spirits below,’ Venn breathed, stumbling in shock. The priestess gave him a puzzled look but Venn ignored it, as he ignored Jackdaw’s sobs of terror. On the wind there was a faint smell, one Venn recognised all too well: the scent of peach blossom . . . despite the winter snow.

    ‘ Indeed, ’ said Rojak.

     
    Mihn stepped through the black doors and for a gut-clenching moment everything went dark. There was a distant boom as the enormous doors closed again. After a while he realised there was some faint light on the other side. At first he could see little, though he could feel the oppressive presence of a vast slope, stretching up ahead. The incline was shallow, and more or less regular, but it continued endlessly into the distance with nothing beyond. A hot, sour-smelling wind drifted over him, and Mihn felt very vulnerable and exposed as he took in the boundlessness of the place.

    Behind him came a great rasping noise, accompanied by a stench so foul he found himself gagging even as he ran blindly for several hundred yards, not daring to look back. Ancient, brittle bones crackled underfoot, and an awful whispery sound was interspersed with faint sighs and occasional groans. Daima had warned him not to linger there, nor to look back, but there was little need