Looking South - Part VIII

here was little to do in the cave while they waited for the day to come to an end. Sir Petriz of Vasks had occupied himself with prayer for an hour, and then with spit-polishing his escutcheon. When all the grime of weeks riding hade finally yielded to his scrubbing and a shine once more began to gleam in the metal, he resumed praying again.

And it was only a few hours until dusk, but still, he found the waiting to be growing unbearable. Sir Petriz was accustomed to waiting, but there was something about the land which made it unpleasant. The cave faced to the west, and he could watch the path up the mountains if he stood just to the southernmost lip of the cave mouth. He could also see the sands darkening, hardening, and the empty expanse that trailed off to his left was bleak, and filled him with a sullen despair.

How could he rejoice in doing Eli’s work in so horrible a land as this?

And then, even a he thought such a horrid thing, he saw some feline creep over one of the dells in the distance. Its head turned in their direction for a moment, before it continued on its way, disappearing behind one of the slender crags that protruded from the earth like another mountain peak whose base was buried miles below. Sir Petriz smiled and snorted, arms crossed over his chest. Glancing up at the deep blue cloudless sky, he smiled. “Forgive me my doubts, Eli.”

“What?” Sir Wodnicki asked, stirring from where he was tending to their horses. Sir Poblocka had elected to nap, and was curled into his blankets at the rear of the cave. Karol was practising his own meditative praying, so did not stir at the interruption.

But Sir Petriz merely shook his head. He cast a glance back to the older knight. His face was gruff from the week’s worth of beard he’d let grow, and there was a narrowness to his eyes that always came to him when he was confused. In one hand he held the curry, and the was still held to the neck of his steed.

“Nothing, my friend, nothing. Just thinking that is all.” Wodnicki grunted and frowned as if he disapproved, and then returned his attention on the horse.

And then the other aspect of the waiting that had begun to grate upon him. There was no noise. Knights were not meant to be scouts skulking and hiding quietly. He had nothing against scouts who did so – he had great respect for the men who gathered information quietly. It was just not something that he felt knights should do. It was against their natures after all. They were men who were bred to camaraderie and service. To remain so still and silent was a thing for the more monkish of them, an attribute that many had said aptly described Sir Petriz. But though he was often quiet himself, he liked to listen to the japes and jokes of his fellow knights.

Of course, there was also the horses. It was impossible to keep them completely quiet. There was always the occasional whuff or snort as they stood reluctantly in the rocky cave. They could do nothing about the hard stone, or the lack of fresh water. If Sir Czestadt’s ploy failed, they would have to leave this area of the mountains in only a matter of days to return to the oasis and resupply. He could feel Karenna’s discomfort, and he felt terribly sorry that he had to put her through the unpleasant conditions.

Even so, listening to the sounds of the horses alone was not altogether upsetting. In fact, a part of him enjoyed listening to the voices of the equines. There was a grace to them, an almost unmitigated simplicity that he felt reflected in himself. A horse and the equine’s knight were truly one creature, both needing each other to be fully complete. How many times had he just ridden through the wide fields around Vasks for the mere pleasure of it? And hadn’t he once told his priest that to ride a horse as he did could be a form of prayer too?

His smile began to slide form his face, and his eyes focussed more sharply upon the rock when he heard the crunch of stone in the distance. His breath caught in his chest as he waited to hear another footfall, but long moments went by with nothing. The air was crisp and hot, but still he felt his skin tremble.

And then, just as he was letting his breath back out, the sound came again, more clearly this time. He cast his eyes back in the cave, and he saw that Wodnicki had stopped and was now resting both hands upon his horse. Karol was still praying silently, and Poblocka was still asleep, but if there was a third sound, neither would continue that way for long.

It came only seconds later. Sir Petriz nodded to Wodnicki, his face grit and determined. The older knight nudged Karol’s shoulder, and then when the boy glanced up querulously, he put one finger to his lips. Petriz met his squire’s searching eyes and nodded, gesturing to the sleeping knight at the back of the cave. Karol nodded and crept slowly and carefully back through the dark interior.

Petriz watched for only a moment more before glancing back outside. The narrow winding path up the mountains remained as it had been before, empty, but he could hear the soft crunch of horses hooves now upon stone. It would only be a few minutes more before they would come into view. It surprised him that they would consider attempting the narrow pass so soon. There was no way they could bring their wagons down that winding gouge in the stone. In fact, as he listened, he felt certain that it was only a small party. Perhaps a scouting group?

Poblocka grumbled a bit as he was woken, but he stopped short his snarl at the boy. Petriz glanced once more at his friends and saw that Wodnicki was carefully saddling the horses. Poblocka was rubbing sleep from his eyes as quickly as he could, while Karol was lifting up the older knight’s mail shirt for him.

Sir Petriz took a slow step backward. He did not want the sun to reflect off his mail shirt and warn those coming down the flue. And he felt himself suck in his breath as he saw the first figures beginning to emerge from the opening. It was as if he had for a moment stepped outside of his own body, regarding the situation. There were three rather large individuals that had come down, each leading a horse that from the look of them had been stolen from the Driheli. Sir Petriz had not had a chance yet to see many of the native people’s of the Steppe, but two of the men closely resembled them, despite their colourful garb. But the third was clearly from the Holy Land, and the two white locks of hair upon his head were easy to see despite the distance.

“Kashin,” Sir Petriz whispered. He took several more steps back into the cave, and then looked at his men. “They are three,” he said in a whisper. “Kashin is one of them. We cannot let him go. In two minutes we will give chase. Karol, I want you to wait here and watch our backs in case more of them come from that passage.”

His squire was clearly disappointed. He could remember those times when he had been told to wait behind when he had been a squire. He’d born that same downward tilt to his lips then too. But there were just some things he needed to wait for, and this was one of them. He would not lightly take his squire into battle with him. Only if there was no other choice.

And Sir Petriz knew that if they could ride them against the mountains, they had the advantage.

Poblocka and Wodnicki readied their mounts, while Karol saddled Karenna. The bay mare was eager to run, her nostrils flared and her eyes intent. Sir Petriz smiled at that. He crept up the side of the cave until he could see where the three Magyars were. They had started westward, flanking the mountains for the moment. That was fortuitous.

Still, Sir Petriz said a quick prayer to Eli, seeking His blessings before he would set out to face the traitor in battle. His breath was tight though, and every beat of his heart threatened to rupture his chest. He had faced battle many times, but for some reason, this felt different. Here he was not fighting some band of brigands. The man he sought had once protected the Patriarch, the holiest man alive. The disquiet did not leave him after praying either.

Gritting his teeth, he climbed up into the saddle, though he had to duck his head low to avoid hitting the roof of the cave. He could smell the earthy scent of Karenna’s mane as it brushed across his face in the hot air. He patted her neck with one hand. Karol came around to his side and offered him leather gloves. He smiled at the boy, and let his squire work them over his fingers. Once done, Petriz reached over and patted his squire on the shoulder, gripping him once tightly in admiration. One day he’d be a fine knight that Petriz could be proud of.

Glancing back, he saw that both Poblocka and Wodnicki were ready, each waiting on his word. The Knight Commander of Vasks took a deep breath, and then made a soft clicking noise in his teeth. Karenna started forward slowly. The crunch of stone was inevitable, but in a moment it wouldn’t matter anyway. Kashin and the Magyars were far enough from the passage that they could not flee back up it now even if they did see them coming.

And then, as the sun finally beat down on him and he could lift his head, Sir Petriz gave the reins a firm snap, a short kick to the bay mare’s sides, and they were off, thundering across the parched earth towards the trio on foot. He drew out his sword from its scabbard, the ring of steel lost in the roar of hooves. Energy filled his every bone and sinew, though it was tainted by that unsettled feeling in his stomach. Still, he did his best to ignore it and continue the chase.

That the three saw them approaching was clear. They stopped where they were and drew out weapons. One of the men bore a large axe, while another knocked an arrow to his long bow. Kashin however drew out a long sword that glimmered oddly in the bright sunlight. Sir Petriz had to squint as he approached, slowing down slightly. It wouldn’t do to run past them and into the base of the mountains. The Great Eastern Range thrust upwards in a sheer cliff on this face.

And then, Kashin did something totally unexpected. He turned the sword pint downwards and thrust it into the Earth. He knelt behind the sword, head lowered and neck exposed. He lifted his right hand high, palm open and facing them. Sir Petriz pulled back on the reins, his sword arm still held out though. This man knew the proper way to seek parlay amongst the Driheli. But he feared it still may be a trick.

Petriz held his breath tightly in his chest, and he could feel his own sweat mingling with Karenna’s. She champed at the bit as he brought her to a stop a good twenty paces from the kneeling figure. The two Magyars were staring at im warily, their weapons still clutched tightly. Sir Poblocka and Sir Wodnicki were soon at his side, looking glum and very unhappy about what they saw. They eyed the Magyars suspiciously and grimly.

“I have heard,” Sir Petriz said in the Southern tongue, even as he laid his sword across the pommel of his saddle, “that you can speak our tongue, Kashin.”

“My name is Nemgas,” the man with two white locks of hair said. He stood then, hands empty of weapons. The sword that stood in the Earth at his feet was a black blade folded over a silver tang in the centre. It glimmered brightly in the sunlight. “I grow tired of saying this to you Driheli, but I will say it this time more. Kashin of the Yeshuel is dead. My name is Nemgas. You seek a dead man. Leave us in peace.”

“I was told to expect this,” Sir Petriz said with a nod. “But you have requested parlay, and being a knight of honour, I am obliged to offer it to you. Have your men lower their weapons and my knights and I will do the same.”

The man claiming to be called Nemgas called back in an archaic patois of the Suielish tongue to the other two. They reluctantly lowered their weapons, though the broad man with the axe kept his hand awfully close to where it lay propped against the mountainside. Sir Petriz sheathed his blade, and so too did his knights. Beneath him, Karenna stirred a bit impatiently. She seemed to be quite unhappy about something.

“So,” Sir Petriz said, “if you are Nemgas and Kashin is dead, how is it that you look so much like him? You have the appearance of one born in the Holy Land, unlike your friends there, who are clearly of Steppe birth.”

It was clear that the other Magyars did not understand the Southern tongue, but they seemed to hear things in the inflection and emphasis that made them snarl unpleasantly.

“I know that my appearance is deceiving,” Nemgas replied slowly, “but I am Steppe-born. I can remember my childhood lived in the wagons of my people. I can tell you of years spent circling that Steppe. I know the stories of my people, though I am no storyteller. But what I a not, is a Yeshuel. I have never been to Yesulam. You are chasing the wrong man.”

Sir Petriz looked from him to the three horses that they had brought wit them down the mountain path. They were laden with cloths and goods. If these were scouts, they were the most well stocked scouts he had ever witnessed.

“Where is it that you are journeying too, Nemgas?” He kept his voice level. Could there be truth to what he was saying? Something inside him told him that a great deal was being left unsaid.

Nemgas sucked in his breath, face rising to meet his. Sir Petriz felt the power of that gaze and his bones began to tremble. He had heard the stories. This man must have been the very one who had reanimated the dragon skeleton. The sword was the same after all. There was a depth to those eyes, and a sense of conviction that he had rarely ever seen in another.

“I journey to Yesulam.” Nemgas announced, his voice plain and flat, as if daring any to disagree with him.

It was now Sir Petriz’s turn to take a deep breath. “And what do you intend to do there?”

Petriz did his best to hold Nemgas’s gaze. He had learned to meet Sir Czestadt’s, and the Knight Templar had one of the most unsettling stares that he had ever felt. Nemgas was his equal.

“There is a member of the Bishop’s Council who arranged the Patriarch’s murder. I will find this rogue Bishop, and kill him.”

“Pagan!” Poblocka spat then, trembling in fury. Sir Petriz turned swiftly and grabbed his arm, keeping his fellow knight from snatching up his sword.

“Do not break parlay,” Sir Petriz hissed between his teeth. Poblocka snarled, but slumped in his saddle, his eyes spitting vile death at the Magyars, since he did not seem willing to look at Nemgas.

Turning back to the Magyar who looked so like Kashin, the Knight Commander took a deep breath. “How is it that you know there was any such plot?” He felt so tense that he was ready to draw his own sword again. The words had struck at his heart. The Bishop’s would never do something so vile. They were Eli’s vicars in this world after all. This Magyar was doing the Evil One’s work. There could be no other explanation for it.

Nemgas did not let his gaze waver from Sir Petriz. “Kashin discovered this plot and told me of it before he died. The man who killed the Patriarch was a Sondecki. Are you familiar with the Sondeckis?”

A Sondecki had not been seen in the lands of Stuthgansk for five centuries. But he had heard of them. They were one of the few mage clans that were given protection by the Ecclesia. And so in his mind, they were good servants of Eli. “Yes, I have heard of them. A Sondecki do you say? So why did Kashin not follow this Sondecki?”

“Because the Sondecki was set upon the Patriarch at the orders of someone higher. Only when the Bishop who has betrayed the Ecclesia is dead can the Sondecki be found and killed.”

Sir Petriz leaned forward a bit. The horses stamped their hooves. “So why are you trying to do this? You said Kashin is dead. Why are you trying to kill this Bishop? Who is this Bishop?”

“I do not know the name of the Bishop. But I do this because you leave me no choice. The same Bishop who arranged Patriarch Akabaieth’s murder is the one who ordered you to kill Kashin.”

At that Sir Petriz stiffened and reached for his sword. But he stopped himself and made his fingers clasp tightly into a fist. The heat of the sun was almost unbearable.

“You lie!”

“No, I do not.” Nemgas crossed his hands before his waist. “Will you leave and allow us to continue on our way, or will you force me to kill you as well? I do not want to kill you if I do not have to. You are merely pawns in this fight.” He paused for a moment, clearly thinking and then smiled. “You are Sir Petriz of Vasks, yes? The second Knight Commander?”

“How did you know my name?” Sir Petriz asked in surprise. And then he remembered what he had heard Karol say. Sir Andrej’s squire was dressed asa Magyar and sitting in their camp. The name came to him quickly. “Golonka. Golonka told you.”

“His name is Grastalko now,” Nemgas announced, rather proudly in fact. “He has chosen to be a Magyar. He believes me when I tell him these things.”

Sir Petriz felt as if a sword had been thrust through his gullet at those words. A squire of the Driheli giving it up to become a Magyar? The thought horrified him so, that he felt himself shake in rage. “No! How could that be?” Ah, why did this man have to call parlay? Why did it have to be so difficult to live according to Eli’s will?

“Because it is so.” Nemgas stated plainly. His gaze softened for a moment, but then it hardened once more. It seemed as if Nemgas were staring past him at something in the distance, though the eyes never left Petriz.

“I am going to ask you one last time. Will you stand aside and allow me to continue on my journey? Or will you assist me in slaying this evil Bishop who has turned the noble Driheli to foul purpose? Or are you going to blindly follow those orders and try to kill me?” Nemgas rubbed his thumbs together. His hand was no more than two inches from the hilt of his blade.

Sir Petriz narrowed his eyes for a moment. The Magyars were not in an enviable position. With their backs to the mountain, they would no doubt fight fiercely, but they were on foot still, while the knights were on horseback. With the sun behind them, the advantage was clearly theirs.

“You give me no reason but your word that we should trust you. You are a Magyar. Magyars are known to be tricksters. Therefore, I do not believe you, Nemgas. When this parlay is ended, we will attack, and we will win.”

Nemgas shook his head. “No, Sir Petriz. You will not attack at all. Because right now, there are arrows pointed at the necks of your two knights.”

Sir Petriz twisted in his saddle, though his knights did not. Not only were the Magyar’s words true, but another horror awaited him. There were three more Magyars all on foot who had taken up position thirty paces behind them. Two of the three – and one a woman at that – were pointing arrows at his fellow knights. But the one in the centre, a dark haired fellow with gaunt expression, pinioned Karol before him, a deadly knife at the squire’s throat.

Sir Petriz felt fear stiffen his bones, but then anger melted them anew. “You dare! You dare to violate parlay like this!”

“They were not a part of the parlay,” Nemgas replied calmly. “Nor do I like having to resort to such tactics. Nor would I have chosen to do so. They cannot understand a word I am saying, Sir Petriz. They chose this course of action of their own free will. I will ensure that the boy is unharmed and let go if you choose to allow us passage.”

Sir Petriz could not believe the audacity of this man. The appearance of the three Magyars behind them was not happenstance. They’d been waiting to draw them out now. And he’d left them Karol as a prisoner. He had hoped to protect the boy, his squire, and in the end, he had brought him this danger. And to threaten a boy! A squire no less! And after already having forced poor Golonka to become a Magyar. How deep was their unreasoning hatred for knights that they would sink to such a dishonourable trick?

“Nemgas, if that is who you are,” Sir Petriz said, measuring his words carefully. “You make accusations but offer no proof. And until you present me with proof, I see no reason not to follow my instructions. You are right that my instructions come from a Bishop in Yesulam. I will not deny it. But I am to take the word of a lying Magyar over one of Eli’s anointed representatives? What sort of fool do you take me for?”

Before Nemgas could speak, Sir Petriz lifted his head to forestall him. “The boy you have hostage is my squire. Set him free and take me as your hostage in his place.”

Not only did this make Nemgas stare in surprise, but both his knights turned to look at him as if he had gone mad. “Lord Commander, no!” Poblocka cried out. “They will kill you!”

“They will kill Karol too,” Sir Petriz pointed out, his grip on the pommel of his saddle tightening. He could feel the leather crack under his fingers. “That I will not let happen. Take me instead. I will go willingly to my death if only you let Karol and my knights here go free. Do them no harm. My life for theirs. What say you, Nemgas?”

Nemgas pondered for a moment. His face was set into an uncomfortable grimace, and there was a haunted look that passed through his eyes for but a moment. And then he was alm and confidant once more. “Leave all of your weapons here. Not just you, Sir Petriz, but your knights and squire as well. They will leave this place with no weapons of any kind. And no armour. They may keep their horses and their cloaks, and a bit of water and food, but that is all. I can promise them no such mercy should I see them again. And you, Sir Petriz, will swear upon the yew that you will never try to escape.”

“I will do as you say. I will swear it.” It saved his squire’s life, and the lives of his knights. He would do it.

“And know this.” Nemgas’s voice was dark as night. “Should you break your vow, I will kill your horse.”

“Very well. But first you must do one thing for me. Saddle my squire and let him go. Until I know that you can be trusted, I see no reason to take any vows. You could wait until we lower our weapons and then kill us all. Prove I can trust you, and then I will take a vow.”

Both Poblocka and Wodnicki shifted uncomfortably in their saddles. He did not blame them. But they did not understand him. They had not spent night after night in prayer as he had done.

Nemgas nodded and called out in the Flatlander tongue to the three behind them. A brief conversation ensued, one that he could understand, though the dialect was confusing. The three behind him were obviously distressed at the news that they’d be letting some of the Driheli go free. But in the end, the one with the knife marched Karol back towards the cave where his horse waited.

Sir Petriz prayed inwardly that he was doing the right thing, and asked for guidance and hope. It was all he could do in those interminable minutes of waiting. The sun burned at his skin. The air sucked the very breath from his body. But still he prayed, while Karenna danced nervously beneath him. His two knights were in worse states, grumbling under their breath, and looking at the Magyars with vile hatred. Especially Nemgas, who could have been Kashin’s twin to judge form his description. And perhaps the name of Nemgas was all a lie and this was indeed Kashin standing before them. Sir Petriz would know in time.

The minutes trickled past, and for the eight waiting, they moved but little. Karol was leading his horse instead of riding it as Sir Petriz had hoped, but he guessed the Magyars didn’t trust him enough either. Karol looked up at Sir Petriz with disbelief and concern. He smiled down to the boy and nodded his head. “Yes, Karol. I would trade my life for yours. When you leave this place, do not come back. If Eli wills, we shall meet again. Trust in Eli, Karol. Trust in Eli as you always have.”

Karol nodded slowly and stood taller. “I shall, sir.”

Nemgas waited until their exchange was over and rubbed his palms together slowly. “Your squire is free, he has no weapons, and he may leave. I will ask for no further until he has done so out of courtesy to you.”

“Karol, mount and ride to the west,” Sir Petriz ordered. His squire nodded glumly. He offered one faint smile to his knight, and then gave a short kick to the horse’s sides. The stallion leaped forward, charing off to the west where the sun blazed. After a short span of time the horse slowed and then stopped, Karol looking back and watching. He was out of bow range of even the best of archers, but he could still see them clearly.

“Now,” Nemgas continued. “All of you, drop your weapons. All of them.” Sir Petriz nodded to both his knights, and they reluctantly dropped their swords to the ground at their sides. Knives were pulled from boots or sides and deposited on the hard earth as well. “Now, your armour. Remove it.”

It took a bit longer for them to remove their armour, but they did. Despite the unlikelihood that they would ever happen upon their armour again, they all remained conscientious about preventing any creases to form in the suits of mail. When they finally stood apart, Nemgas gestured to Sir Petriz. “It is time for your vow, Sir Petriz. I will hear it from you before your knights.”

Sir Petriz sucked in his breath and took several steps forward before kneeling in the dirt. He felt naked without his armour, but he would strip even the cloths he wore ow from his body to protect his squire. “I swear to Eli that I shall never try to escape from you, Nemgas of the Magyars, while I remain your captive.” He said no more. After a moment’s silence, he stood and stared defiantly at the Magyar. “Let my knights go. I have fulfilled my end of the bargain.”

Nemgas nodded then. “They may go.”

They did not move though. Turning about on his heels, Sir Petriz looked them both in the eye. “Both of you get on your horses and join Karol. You can do nothing for me here. See Karol to safety.”

“We will rescue you, Lord Commander,” Sir Wodnicki intoned. He spat at the ground as he leapt back onto his steed. “We will.”

“You have not seen the last of us,” Sir Poblocka snarled after mounting. He narrowed his eyes at the Magyars one last time before the pair of them rode off into the west. Sir Petriz watched them dwindle and grow indistinct. They slowed when they neared Karol, and then the three of them rode off together.

Nemgas gripped the pommel of his strange black and silver sword and drew it from the ground. He held the point upwards then, until it brushed under Sir Petriz’s chin. “Why did you offer yourself to me? Tell me truly now. You could have killed me and fulfilled your mission for Yesulam.”

“I would have lost my squire and my honour had I tried,” Sir Petriz replied. “I love him as a father to a son. And I would die for him.”

The Magyar slowly lowered the blade. He felt the hunting scrutiny of those dark eyes, though he would not flinch. Not from this man. No matter how much he wished to.

“And that is the reason I will let you live,” Nemgas replied then, sheathing the blade at his side. He turned back to the Magyars and croaked, “Chamag, Berkon, tie him to his horse. Pelgan, ride up the pass and fetch Kaspel and Gelel. We hath a long walk ahead of us. The Driheli shalt be back for this one.”

Sir Petriz knew that it would not be long before they were found by the others. He wondered if they hoped to use him as a hostage to save themselves from the Knight Templar’s wrath. If they thought so, then they clearly did not know Sir Czestadt of Stuthgansk.

“Eli, give me strength,” he prayed at last. “Give me strength.”

Grastalko lightly knocked on the door to the wagon he’d been directed to. They were still traversing the mountain pass, though several times the jagged crags had parted long enough for them all to view the rolling green fields that lay to the east. It reminded him of his home, and for a moment, he felt melancholy as he yearned for it. But those moments passed, and he found himself sharing the joyful expectation that the rest of the Magyar evinced.

Adlemas had been a cheerful enough fellow, and he’d enjoyed the many hours of their journey together so far. After explaining that there was something wrong with his hand, the older Magyar had assured him that it would not prevent him from doing all that he aught, it was just a matter of relearning and adjusting. There had been other Magyars similarly wounded who had gone on and done great things after all. This heartened Grastalko, but to his mind great things meant victories in jousts against unimaginable opponents, or defending the kingdom against evil invaders. He was pretty sure that the Magyar notion f great things was a bit different.

And in fact, he’d learned that too. He’d asked about other Magyars who’d done great things and had heard one of the many stories of Shapurji, the greatest Magyar there had ever been. He’d heard the tale of how he’d gone to perform before a lord of a city and had won the heart of his daughter. The Lord, angry that her daughter would be smitten by a lowly nomad such as he, had him sentenced to death. But his daughter, won over by Shapurji’s charms and winsome songs, freed him, and ran off with him while bringing half the castle’s servants with them. All of them becoming Magyars just to save Shapurji’s life.

Grastalko could see in it what Magyars thought was so great. It was certainly not the way he had heard stories such as that before, but he’d always had a bit of fondness for the rogue who’d thwarted the overly pious lord. Now, he found himself laughing heartily at the tale’s end, and hoping that soon he would hear of more of Shapurji’s exploits in the days and weeks ahead.

But, as the sun had neared the horizon he knew that he had to do what he’d been putting off all day. He had to let the wise woman of their people examine his hand. Nemgas had seemed to understand what had happened to it, though his explanations had left Grastalko’s mind reeling. The only one who might be able to make sense of the whole affair was Dazheen.

The burning sensation that he’d felt at the morning meal had subsided into a faint smouldering sensation. It felt like he was lying next to a fire that was nearly dead, and he could more hear the last crumbling traces of heat than feel them. He had found that he could move what was left of his fingers, but they were like twigs and he was half afraid they would snap off if he ever tried to lift anything with them.

A young girl a few years his senior answered the door. She was frail, and their was a frightened look in her brown eyes as she considered the gangly youth at the wagon’s door. “Who art thee?” she asked, and then paused, studying his much lighter features. His hair, though dark as well, seemed a beacon of light amongst these mostly black-haired people. “Thou art the knight boy.”

Grastalko had heard from Adlemas and others that it was impolite to talk about what a Magyar had been before they’d become a Magyar. In fact, he’d tried to discuss this with Adlemas, but the man pointedly would not say just how he felt about having a squire of the Driheli forcibly joining their ranks. He had grown perturbed and uncomfortable when Grastalko had pressed the subject, and so, sensing that he was upsetting the man, he had let the matter drop. So it came as a great surprise to him to hear this girl speak of his past so openly. And it pained him too. Would in their mind’s they always see him as nothing other than a knight’s boy they’d captured?

“I hight Grastalko,” he replied, fighting back that swirl of emotions. He had seen his knight’s dying face in his dreams long enough. He’d chosen to be a Magyar hadn’t he? Wasn’t it time that he let those ghosts rest too? “I hath come to see Dazheen.”

But the girl shook her head. “Thou mayest not enter, Grastalko. She hath something very important to tend to. Thou must return another day.” So saying, she closed the door.

He stood there dumbly for a moment. The crunch of the rock beneath the wagon wheels and the distant laughter of other Magyars were all the sounds that the world held for a moment. Grastalko stared at the door and beyond, back to that girl’s face as if she had slapped him. Blinking, he turned about to where the driver sat. He was an older Magyar, clearly in his forties with hair graying to white one follicle at a time. “Didst I say something to offend her?” he asked, feeling rather sheepish.

“Nay,” the man said, his voice gravelly. He turned his head and smiled, his eyes a bit rheumy. “‘Tis just Bryone’s way. Knock again. If Dazheen is truly busy, then thou wilt hear the same thing. If not, then thou shalt be invited in.”

Grastalko nodded, feeling a bit better to know that he was not the only one this happened to. “I thank thee,” he said with a slight smile. The Suielish language was coming much easier to him now. In fact, it had a musical lilt that was nearly infectious. The Magyars liked to say that it was the truest language of all. And as he spoke it, and more and more thought in it, he wondered if perhaps they were not right. Merely thinking in it ordered his mind in a way that had been lacking before. Things seemed clearer and plainer now, and although he many not always find the words he wanted, he knew their spirit readily enough.

The older Magyar smiled once more and returned his attention to the winding road ahead. The crags once more framed them on either side and Grastalko felt as if they were pressing in on them, ready to topple over and crush them at any moment. The very notion of it made his uncomfortable and anxious. Returning to the door, he knocked again, a bit more insistently this time. His breath felt rushed.

Bryone opened once more, and she stared at him for a second as if she had never expected that he’d still be there. “I wish to speak with Dazheen,” he said, nodding at the curtain that he could see framing the entrance behind her.

“Dazheen hast many things to do,” announced Bryone rather importantly. “But she hast consented to see thee. Come.”

Grastalko smiled to the girl, hoping that perhaps she would not seem so skittish like a wild doe. But she looked away from him, and pushed aside the beaded curtain. Grastalko stepped through cautiously, unsure of what to expect. Beyond the inside of the wagon was lighted in a soft yellow warmth by an array of candles that lined a set of waist-high cabinets to the left, and a few sconces set within the wood on the right. At the far end of the room, which was in reality no more than seven paces long, stood another curtain. Presumably there were pallets on which to sleep back there, as there were none visible in this room. To the right there was a small table set in an alcove. In the far seat sat an old woman, her flesh wrinkled and hair white. Her arthritic hands traced cracked nails over the edges of cards that had been arrayed in a strange diagram on top of the table. The seat opposite her was empty.

“Thou art Grastalko.” Her voice was warm and kind, though she could not help but betray a measure of exhaustion.

“Aye,” he replied, stepping forward further into the light so that she could see him. Her yellowed eyes examined him for several moments. She did not seem to take any longer in looking at his left hand than she did any other part of him.

“Thou wilt grow into a strong man, Grastalko. Why dost thee seek me?”

“My hand.” He held out his left hand then, though the fingers that he could see, the flesh that looked unharmed, remained as immovable as before. “‘Twas burnt, thou some magic makes it look whole.”

Dazheen gestured for him to come closer, and he did bringing his hand to hover just over the table while she examined it. She did not reach out to touch him, but merely looked, gesturing for him to turn it over and back again few times. Grastalko could not help but glance down at the cards that she’d arranged on the table. They had all been placed face down, though from the way that she was putting them together, he could not help but see some parts of a face. It was hard to describe, but that was exactly what it looked like. There, hooking slightly, was a nose, while eyes were framed in an almost rude manner. There was no ear yet, and the mouth seemed ill-formed, but it was a face nevertheless.

Dazheen hummed softly to herself some strange folk melody in a mode he’d never encountered as she examined his hand. Under her gaze, he could feel some of that smouldering burning sensation return. Wincing, Grastalko tried to keep his hand still, even though he could see through the illusory flesh to the red coals that glimmered with hateful life. Did it not like being seen, he wondered?

“‘Tis a powerful magic that hast done this,” Dazheen announced suddenly then, sitting back in her seat. Grastalko lowered his hand to his side, and found that the burning sensation subsided. There was a strange iciness to the air though, one that he found inexplicable. The candles still warmed, and their fragrance was rather intoxicating, but still, he could not help but shiver.

Dazheen studied him more closely. “Thou didst know that already. How didst thy hand become burned?”

Grastalko swallowed the bile in his throat. He did not like to think of what had brought him to the wagon where the boy Pelurji lay. He’d gone to kill Nemgas, an intention that shamed him now. “I wast talking with Nemgas. He didst have two swords with him, and he didst tell me to pick one up. ‘Twas a choice. If I choose the wrong blade, I wouldst have chosen not to be a Magyar, and then Nemgas and all of thee wouldst hath been my enemies. But I didst choose to be a Magyar, and it wast the sword I choose that burned me.”

“Which sword wast it?”

“‘Twas a fancy blade. Ceremonial? Aye, ‘tis the word. Ceremonial. ‘Twas fashioned with jewels, and wast a golden colour.”

“I know of the blade,” announced Dazheen. There was a contemplative look to her eyes.

“But I picked up the blade in my right hand. Yet it burned my left. How didst it do this?”

Dazheen could clearly feel his agony and confusion, for she smiled ever so slightly to him. It was a comforting smile, but it alone could not allay his worry. “Didst Nemgas say why thee wast burned?”

“He didst say that I wast touched by Cenziga.”

At this Bryone gasped sharply, and even Dazheen seemed to flinch. But the old woman did not look surprised. “Nemgas hath no fear of that place now. But ‘tis still a place to be feared.” One of her hands lowered to the cards on the table, and she slid one of them a few inches with her finger. The face was becoming clearer. “If it ‘twas that place that hast burned thee, then I canst do nothing for thee. Of it I understand little. ‘Tis a place of powerful and inexplicable magic.”

“Nemgas said that it creates doubles,” Grastalko offered, not sure what she might make of this. He was very disappointed that she could offer him no better answers.

“Aye, but ‘tis stranger still than merely that.” Dazheen’s hand was continuing to shift cards about, almost absently he thought. He felt a strange sort of unease build in him as he watched that face grow more distinct. He had the uncomfortable sensation that something was actually looking out through those hollow eyes. Behind him, he heard Bryone slipping past. He caught the girl in the corner of his eye as she came around to stand behind Dazheen.

“Hast it done anything else?” Grastalko asked, averting his eyes from the table.

“Aye. It dost rain ash upon the land. And it hath made of thy hand ash. And if the legends are true, then it hath done far more since it came into this world.”

“It hath not always been there?” Grastalko asked, confused. Mountains were so huge and unmoveable. They could be torn down with time, but they could not be built up. How could one come into the world?

“The beginning of that place hath been lost in history. I know that it hath been spoken of coming into the world, but nary any in the generations of Magyars I hath touched hath known more than that.”

“Dazheen...” Bryone’s voice quavered as her eyes widened. Grastalko saw the frightened look in her eyes and let his eyes stare down at the table. The cards were shifting. The face was moving of its own accord.

The iciness descended through to his very bones, and Grastalko froze in place. What magic was this? This was evil, and he could feel it. The candles in the room dwindled as if they too were frightened of being snuffed by these bits of paper come to life. Dazheen lowered her gaze and stared unafraid at the face. “Who art thou? Why dost thou infest my cards?” she asked, her town commanding, possessing a strength that Grastalko could scarcely believe any could possess.

And then, even more strangely, the cards replied. The voice was hollow, but their was an air of arrogance, and he thought, nobility within it. Even so, the voice could never have been uttered by a human throat. It was too cold. “You have no right to ask me any such question. The cards are mine. Get out.”

“Thou art an interloper,” Dazheen replied, digging her claws into the cards, and she actually began to tear into the paper. “Why art thee in my cards?”

The voice was haughty. “All cards are mine. But you shall never see me in them again.” And then, the mouth of the cards spat. It was the only way that Grastalko could describe it. Two of the cards shot from the mouth, their points flinging upwards and digging themselves deep into Dazheen’s eyes. Blood sprayed, and the face upon the table laughed once before dissolving into a random assortment. Bryone and Grastalko leaned forward, gripping the cards that had embedded themselves in the seer’s eyes. Dazheen did not scream, but the agony upon her face was plain.

“Grastalko, take them out,” she said, her voice strained. “Bryone, soak a cloth in my oils and wrap it about my head.:

Bryone nodded and drew open one of the drawers, fumbling with linens and bottles. Grastalko felt his stomach turning over in his belly as he gripped one of the cards between his fingers. He was half afraid that the card would fly into his hand and bury itself in his own flesh, but it was no more animated than any other card he’d ever seen before. Taking a deep breath and commanding his stomach to still, he pulled on it gently. The paper slid free amidst a profusion of blood and other fluids. The eye remained in its socket, though a horizontal red gash was now there. The rest of the eye was already beginning to darken.

The end of the card that had plunged into her eye, when he finally saw it, began to sizzle in the open air and crumble to dust. He dropped the card quickly, his hand trembling anew. Grastalko gasped and felt a sob coming into his throat. What madness had he found himself in? What evil existed in this world that could do such things? He hoped he ever learned those answers.

“Do not stop, Grastalko. Thou hast one more card to remove.” Dazheen’s voice was clenched though firm. Her face was creased with pain. She kept her ruined eyes perfectly still. The end of the card wobbled in the air ever so slightly. Repeating one of the prayers he had learned as a child, he reached out and gripped the end of the card between his fingers. Her eyes had darkened, the lines of blood balefully visible, all colour departing except for that miasmatic red. Gently, he drew out the second card, and soon too it joined its brother on the table, the corner burnt off as if placed within a fire.

Bryone took the strip of cloth and quickly wrapped it about her head. Grastalko cringed as he heard a brief sizzling sound as the oil soaked cloth touched her eyes. But then it stopped, and only the blood running down her cheeks remained to be cleansed. Bryone had another cloth at the ready, and quickly wiped those wrinkles until all traces of the blood were gone. No new blood seemed to be flowing either.

Dazheen stretched her hands forward over the table, and pushed the cards into a pile at the far end. “Bryone, put these away for now. I must think.”

The girl nodded, though she approached the cards as if they were ac oiled serpent. Grastalko knew that he would be doing so as well. He felt his left hand burning again, but it lasted only for a moment. He was trembling he realized, and he knew that he could keep his stomach in check for only so long. “Forgive me,” he murmured, and then pushed past the girl, beyond the curtain, and out the door. Turning to one side in the biting air, he heaved over the railing. Though nothing actually came up, he tasted the foul stench of his belly nonetheless.

“Art thee well?” the old Magyar asked in concern.

“Nay,” Grastalko moaned weakly. “Nay. I wilt ne’er be all right.” He did not explain himself any further that day. He just wanted to lie down in his wagon and forget bout all of it.