Kellanved's Reach

The mage halted, and Dancer drew up short, surprised, as Kellanved faced him. ‘That is why Meanas does not trouble me, you see. It is my home. I was born in it. All this,’ and he gestured about, ‘all this is an impediment; irksome. I loathe it. It is in Meanas that I feel most whole. It is my centre. I was formed within its influence. Do you think it mere chance that the Hounds responded to me? No. My soul, my essence, belongs there. It took a while – but they recognized a kindred spirit.’

Dancer let out a breath, nodding. Well … that explains a lot. ‘I … see …’

Kellanved continued on. ‘For a time I bounced from scholar to scholar, mage to warlock, ever pursuing more knowledge of Shadow. Everything since has been an effort to return there for ever. And I shall.’ He thrust the walking stick to the night sky. ‘I shall!’

‘I do not doubt it,’ Dancer murmured.

The mage now set a finger to his lips as he eyed the silvery monochrome landscape before them. ‘I judge we are some three days south of the Idryn. Must we walk it?’

Dancer considered the alternatives – neither of which he judged desirable. ‘Sorry,’ he answered, ‘but we really ought to.’

Kellanved sighed, his thin shoulders falling. ‘Really? Must we?’ He raised a finger in warning. ‘Fine! If we must. But I tell you, once I come into my own there’ll be no more of this tramping about, I promise you!’

Dancer smiled his approval. ‘Agreed. Once the benefits outweigh the hazards.’

*   *   *

Nedurian walked the cobbled main road that led out from Malaz City to cross the isle. Once he’d passed two wayside inns, an informal market ground, a blacksmith’s, and a shop dedicated to building and repairing the local heavy slate roofs, he entered fields and market-gardens where produce, pigs and chickens vied for space among low hedges and ancient, crumbling fieldstone walls. Past these he came to long fields of grain such as barley, millet and wheat that ran in narrow strips out from the road to a distant hidden stream. These rural farmers – crofters, some named them – lived relatively independently of the city just a few hours’ walk, though something of a world, away.

His left leg started to ache then, as it always did when called upon to cross more than a few rods of journey. It was an old injury. A summoned demon had taken a chunk out of his thigh and nicked the femur; a military churgeon had reached him in time to save his life, but the leg had never been the same. Thankfully, not so far ahead, among the windswept hills, he spotted what surely must be his destination.

It was an old local burial field, abandoned now, but rumoured to be haunted, of course. Shunned by the locals. Yet here fresh new canvas tents snapped and shuddered in the wind while long thin banners of black rippled above – sigils of the cult of Hood, resurgent here on the isle due to a personage now accruing a near worldwide reputation among the faithful. Dassem Ultor, Mortal Sword of Hood, god of death.

Nedurian limped onward, entered the field and traced his way through the tents to where adherents and the faithful were gathered, some kneeling, others standing as they prayed. He tried to push past the crowd, only to have his way barred by armed cultists.

‘Yes, brother?’ a woman demanded, her arm out.

‘I am here to see the Sword.’

‘As are we all. Yet he is praying and not to be disturbed.’

‘He’ll see me.’

‘Oh? And why is this?’

‘Because I’m here with a message from the woman he works for!’ Nedurian snapped, rather irritated. ‘That’s why.’

The cultist dropped her arm. ‘Ah. The Sword has left instructions. You may pass.’ Yet the arm snapped up again, a finger thrusting. ‘But the Sword does not work

for this woman. They merely share obligations to the master of Shadow.’

Nedurian had been about to slap the woman’s arm aside, but her words startled him enough to make him pause, blinking. ‘The master of what?’

‘Shadow, of course. There are those among us who share allegiance to that faith as well. They wear the colours of twilight grey.’

Now Nedurian could not stop himself rolling his eyes to the sky. Gods! These religious people and their love of pompous self-important titles and hierarchies of power. Personally, he thought it insane – but, after all, he was just a soldier at heart. Give him comrades in arms, a warm fire and plenty to drink, and life was good. Who needed more than that?

So he shrugged, mumbling something like ‘Pissant fools’, and shouldered his way through.

The centre of the field was empty; a measure of the respect, and perhaps dread, in which the Sword was held. Nedurian passed simple cairns of piled stones to a larger structure, a sepulture of dressed black volcanic rock. Here the Dal Hon lad who was held to be the living embodiment of Hood’s will sat cross-legged, meditating – or dozing, depending upon your level of reverence.

‘Stay like that and you’ll stiffen up,’ Nedurian growled.