‘Your accusation is unjust, Bruthen Trana.’
‘Let us begin this ritual. Tell me, will I journey in the flesh?’
‘No. You would die, and instantly, warrior. No, we must tug free your spirit.’
Hannan Mosag watched as Bruthen Trana moved to the centre of the chamber. The warrior divested himself of his sword and belt and lay down on his back.
‘Close your eyes,’ the Warlock King said, crawling closer. ‘Lead your mind into the comfort of Shadow. You shall feel my touch, upon your chest. Shortly after, all sense of your physical body will vanish. Open your eyes then, and you will find yourself… elsewhere.’
‘How will I know when I have found the path I seek?’
‘By virtue of seeking, you will find, Bruthen Trana. Now, silence please. I must concentrate.’
A short time later the Warlock King reached out and settled his hand upon the warrior’s chest.
As easy as that.
The body lying before him drew no breath. Left alone for too long it would begin to rot. But this was sanctified ground, alive now with the power of Kurald Emurlahn. There would be no decay. There would, for the body, be no passage of time at all.
Hannan Mosag pulled himself closer. He began searching Bruthen Trana’s clothing. The warrior had something hidden on him-something with an aura of raw power that struck the Warlock King’s senses like a stench. He worked through the pockets on the underside of the warrior’s leather cloak and found naught but a tattered note of some kind. He emptied the coin pouch tied to the sword-belt. A lone polished stone, black as onyx but nothing more than wave-eroded obsidian. Three docks-the local Letherii currency. And nothing else. With growing irritation, Hannan Mosag began stripping the warrior.
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‘Your accusation is unjust, Bruthen Trana.’
‘Let us begin this ritual. Tell me, will I journey in the flesh?’
‘No. You would die, and instantly, warrior. No, we must tug free your spirit.’
Hannan Mosag watched as Bruthen Trana moved to the centre of the chamber. The warrior divested himself of his sword and belt and lay down on his back.
‘Close your eyes,’ the Warlock King said, crawling closer. ‘Lead your mind into the comfort of Shadow. You shall feel my touch, upon your chest. Shortly after, all sense of your physical body will vanish. Open your eyes then, and you will find yourself… elsewhere.’
‘How will I know when I have found the path I seek?’
‘By virtue of seeking, you will find, Bruthen Trana. Now, silence please. I must concentrate.’
A short time later the Warlock King reached out and settled his hand upon the warrior’s chest.
As easy as that.
The body lying before him drew no breath. Left alone for too long it would begin to rot. But this was sanctified ground, alive now with the power of Kurald Emurlahn. There would be no decay. There would, for the body, be no passage of time at all.
Hannan Mosag pulled himself closer. He began searching Bruthen Trana’s clothing. The warrior had something hidden on him-something with an aura of raw power that struck the Warlock King’s senses like a stench. He worked through the pockets on the underside of the warrior’s leather cloak and found naught but a tattered note of some kind. He emptied the coin pouch tied to the sword-belt. A lone polished stone, black as onyx but nothing more than wave-eroded obsidian. Three docks-the local Letherii currency. And nothing else. With growing irritation, Hannan Mosag began stripping the warrior.
Nothing. Yet he could smell it, permeating the clothing.
Snarling, Hannan Mosag settled back, his hands twitching.
He’s taken it with him. That should have been impossible. Yet… what other possibility is there?
His fevered gaze found the crumpled note. Collecting it, he flattened the linen and read what had been written there.
At first he could make no sense of the statement-no, not a statement, he realized. A confession. A signature he had not seen before, so stylized in the Letherii fashion as to be indecipherable. Moments later, his mind racing, revelation arrived.
His eyes lifted, fixed upon Bruthen Trana’s now naked form. ‘What deceit were you planning with this, warrior? Perhaps you are cleverer than I had imagined.’ He paused, then smiled. ‘No matter now.’
The Warlock King drew his dagger. ‘Some blood, yes, to seal the sacred life of my temple. Scabandari, you would understand this. Yes. The necessity.’
He crawled up beside Bruthen Trana. ‘Deliver the one we seek, warrior. Yes. Beyond that, alas, my need for you ends.’ He raised the knife, then drove it hard into the warrior’s heart.
Glancing over at Bugg, Tehol Beddict saw his manservant complete an entire turn, his eyes tracking the huge Tarthenal as if they had been nailed to the barbaric warrior with his absurd stone sword. The cordon of guards flanking i he giant looked appropriately terrified. ‘Well,’ Tehol said, ‘he’s no Ublala Pung, now is he?’
Bugg did not even seem to hear him.
‘Oh, be like that, then. I think I want to talk to that other one-what did you call him? Oh yes, the Jhag. Any person who would not flinch in the grip of that Tarthenal is either brainless or-oh, not a pleasant thought-even scarier. Perhaps it would do to hesitate at this moment, mindful as ever of loyal manservant’s advice… no? No it is. So please, do stand there like a man whose heart has just dropped through to lodge somewhere underneath his spliver or some such organ I don’t want to know about. Yes, then, do that.’
Tehol set off towards the Jhag. The other savage who had been punched unconscious by the Tarthenal-the Tarthenal whom Ublala Pung had broken into the compound to find-was now sitting up, looking dazedly about. Blood still streamed from his thoroughly broken nose. The woman, attractive in an earthy way, Tehol noted again, was speaking to the tattooed giant, while a dozen paces away a foreigner stood gazing with something like awe upon either the woman or the Jhag.
In all, Tehol decided, an interesting scenario. Interesting enough to interrupt in his usual charming manner. As he drew closer, he spread his arms and announced, ‘Time, I think, for a more proper welcome to our fair city!’ And his blanket slipped down to gather at his feet.
Bugg, alas, missed this delightful introduction, for even as his eyes had clung to the Toblakai, so he found himself walking, following, step after step, as the warrior and his escort marched towards the Champion’s Compound-or whatever unintentionally ironic name the guileless officials of the palace had named it. They had come to within a street of the walled enclosure when all hopes of continuing came to a sudden but confused end. For the street was filled with people.