off,’ Sallin repeated, unbuttoning his own tunic and pulling his shirt up. Underneath were more strange blue tattoos, markings on his skin like those on the men Daken
had killed earlier.
With one hand he did as Sallin suggested, unbuttoning his coat and lifting the segment-mail shirt underneath. A blue light was playing over his skin, tracing a strange path he couldn’t
feel. As he watched the light began to intensify and then he felt it, sharp and hot enough to make the white-eye hiss with discomfort.
Parain laughed abruptly, a high nervous giggle that broke off as soon as Daken glowered at him. His darkening mood didn’t stop Sallin from joining in to the laughter however and
Daken’s nostrils started to fill with the hot smell of rage.
‘You came to save her!’ Sallin explained, beckoning forward his men. ‘Unfortunately for you, we’re the only ones who can save you from her!’
The old man started towards him, sword raised. ‘The mirror didn’t matter for our ceremony – it was only the vessel to be broken when we banished her from the Land! Some
damn-fool white-eye will do just as well, I assure you.’
Daken moved without replying, his axe flashing through the air to chop through the nearest man’s sword arm. On the backswing he turned and buried the weapon into the next, barrelling on to
batter another aside and find himself within reach of Sallin.
With the deftness of his kind the white-eye brought his axe around to catch Sallin’s rapier with it, hooking the thin weapon and twisting it out of the way. Always moving he dragged the
old man closer to him and smashed his forehead into the knight’s nose, feeling the crunch and spurt of blood on impact.
He turned and tossed the wailing knight towards the next attacker, bowling that one over while he freed his axe again. The rest hung back a moment, spreading out around the hall – seven,
eight of them, all looking nervous but all armed.
A scratching sensation like a cat’s claws began to work at his chest and stomach, but Daken ignored it. The laughter echoed in his ears, Sallin’s and a girl’s mingling to
further enrage the blood-crazed white-eye. One of the knights advanced a cautious step and something snapped inside Daken. The white-eye howled and charged.
Outside, at the broken stretch of wall where one torch was burning low, faint sparks of blue light began to prickle the night air. In response, on the other side of the
warding, the darkness seemed to fold inward upon itself and from the boiling mass of night a figure stepped forward. His yellow eyes flashed as a cruel smile crossed his face. Taller now, his skin
was smooth and pale – unnatural and timeless under the weak moonlight.
‘Litania, my little trickster,’ the God said softly. ‘Did the nasty men mistreat you?’
A girlish laugh broke the night air. ‘I think they’re paying for it now, Father. And all I wanted to do was play; these mortals have a poor sense of humour.’
‘Yet you’ve marked the white-eye? His kind are unlikely to change that opinion.’
‘Oh Father,’ Litania trilled, ‘but I like this one and I’ve always wanted a pet. Can I keep it? Please?’
THE MARSHAL’S REFLECTION
The case I present to you now is not one I was involved in myself. Rather, I hardly touched upon events and did nothing myself, but it remains an undeniable curiosity. The
pertinence I leave to your fancy.
I had been retired several years when, one morning, my son-in-law arrived at my door in perplexed mood. The city was enjoying the last few weeks of a fine and gentle summer as it eased its way
into autumn. The season had been peaceful and balmy, free from scandal and mystery for a change. That summer, to place it in the reader’s mind, was the last-but-two before the shadow of war
came to Narkang. Not long enough for me to forget the vital details, but I fully admit the words are my own rendering.
As Brandt was admitted to
had killed earlier.
With one hand he did as Sallin suggested, unbuttoning his coat and lifting the segment-mail shirt underneath. A blue light was playing over his skin, tracing a strange path he couldn’t
feel. As he watched the light began to intensify and then he felt it, sharp and hot enough to make the white-eye hiss with discomfort.
Parain laughed abruptly, a high nervous giggle that broke off as soon as Daken glowered at him. His darkening mood didn’t stop Sallin from joining in to the laughter however and
Daken’s nostrils started to fill with the hot smell of rage.
‘You came to save her!’ Sallin explained, beckoning forward his men. ‘Unfortunately for you, we’re the only ones who can save you from her!’
The old man started towards him, sword raised. ‘The mirror didn’t matter for our ceremony – it was only the vessel to be broken when we banished her from the Land! Some
damn-fool white-eye will do just as well, I assure you.’
Daken moved without replying, his axe flashing through the air to chop through the nearest man’s sword arm. On the backswing he turned and buried the weapon into the next, barrelling on to
batter another aside and find himself within reach of Sallin.
With the deftness of his kind the white-eye brought his axe around to catch Sallin’s rapier with it, hooking the thin weapon and twisting it out of the way. Always moving he dragged the
old man closer to him and smashed his forehead into the knight’s nose, feeling the crunch and spurt of blood on impact.
He turned and tossed the wailing knight towards the next attacker, bowling that one over while he freed his axe again. The rest hung back a moment, spreading out around the hall – seven,
eight of them, all looking nervous but all armed.
A scratching sensation like a cat’s claws began to work at his chest and stomach, but Daken ignored it. The laughter echoed in his ears, Sallin’s and a girl’s mingling to
further enrage the blood-crazed white-eye. One of the knights advanced a cautious step and something snapped inside Daken. The white-eye howled and charged.
Outside, at the broken stretch of wall where one torch was burning low, faint sparks of blue light began to prickle the night air. In response, on the other side of the
warding, the darkness seemed to fold inward upon itself and from the boiling mass of night a figure stepped forward. His yellow eyes flashed as a cruel smile crossed his face. Taller now, his skin
was smooth and pale – unnatural and timeless under the weak moonlight.
‘Litania, my little trickster,’ the God said softly. ‘Did the nasty men mistreat you?’
A girlish laugh broke the night air. ‘I think they’re paying for it now, Father. And all I wanted to do was play; these mortals have a poor sense of humour.’
‘Yet you’ve marked the white-eye? His kind are unlikely to change that opinion.’
‘Oh Father,’ Litania trilled, ‘but I like this one and I’ve always wanted a pet. Can I keep it? Please?’
THE MARSHAL’S REFLECTION
The case I present to you now is not one I was involved in myself. Rather, I hardly touched upon events and did nothing myself, but it remains an undeniable curiosity. The
pertinence I leave to your fancy.
I had been retired several years when, one morning, my son-in-law arrived at my door in perplexed mood. The city was enjoying the last few weeks of a fine and gentle summer as it eased its way
into autumn. The season had been peaceful and balmy, free from scandal and mystery for a change. That summer, to place it in the reader’s mind, was the last-but-two before the shadow of war
came to Narkang. Not long enough for me to forget the vital details, but I fully admit the words are my own rendering.
As Brandt was admitted to
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